love is a funny and a fickle thing
by Almost an Actress
Summary: Literally a bunch of mostly unrelated one-shots of shipping. That's pretty much it.
1. not in the stars to hold our destinies

**Welcome to the wonderful, wacky world of shipping with Les Mis characters! This is a new series of one-shots I'm starting where our favorite Mis characters are shipped with each other. The first couple up is Jehan/Courfeyrac, by popular demand. It's a modern day AU. So this is for my real life best friend Bee – I have real friends?! – and J91 (She inspired this whole thing!) and ****ViridianNight (A writer I'm HUGELY jealous of!). Besides, honestly, how can anyone dislike this pairing? If you like it, review it, and request a shipping!**

**My Sincerest Regards,**

**-Almost an Actress**

**XXX**

Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire was in love with love. Everything about love appealed to him, from young couples holding hands and offering each other chaste kisses, to the romantic poems he read on a daily basis. There was nothing better than love, and the soft-spoken poet was completely adamant about that. Daily, he would grab a Sharpie and fill his hands, arms, and stomach with quotes and little ideas. Today, his stomach read: "_The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return._" He had watched that film about forbidden love between a penniless writer and a sparkling courtesan – "Moulin Rouge" – yesterday and quite enjoyed it. It had taken the poet about ten straight minutes to write the quote, from wont of space and writing it upside down. Some of the letters were crooked, but it was legible enough.

Jehan pulled his shirt down, and tapped his closed lips with the Sharpie. He leaned against the table he was sitting at and pondered for a few moments – on life, on quotes, and of course, on love. He was thinking about the film he'd saw, and how it upset him slightly. The plot was simple enough: a penniless boy named Christian came from England to Paris to become a writer, and ended up going to this club called The Moulin Rouge. The girls there were all prostitutes, fancy and trashy at the same time. Christian was accidently set up with a meeting with the most famous prostitute, a ginger-haired beauty named Satine. They ended up falling in love, tangling with the jealous Duke and trying to keep their love a secret. The underlying plot was that Satine was consumptive. Well, she died in Christian's arms as he wept.

Jehan had been wrapped in an oversized sweater in he and Cosette's shared apartment, sobbing his eyes out while she consoled him, murmuring, "It's just a movie, sweetie."

The movie was campy and silly, but it was also quite dark and tragic. It had left a lasting impression on the poet, and it was disturbing him slightly how much it had affected him. He held out his arm and scribbled, "_Love is like oxygen!_" He grinned as he did so, imagining Christian goofily protesting and pleading with Satine to fall in love with him.

Suddenly, he heard a jingle as the door of the Café Musain gently opened. He didn't look up though; he was too busy scrawling "_Love is a many splendored thing!_" on his opposite arm. He felt a pair of hands on his shoulders and repressed a smile.

"Well, well, my little poet. What have we here?" It was Courfeyrac, lanky arms and tousled black curls being his defining characteristics. He snatched a chair from the table and dragged it behind Jehan, plopping down and unbraiding the poet's thick tawny hair. A few flower petals fluttered to the ground, and Courf made sure to collect them.

"What are you doing?" Jehan asked quietly, blushing. He may have been in love with love, but he was also _very_ in love with a certain inky-haired boy that happened to be sitting less than four inches away.

"Well, I thought it was high time I learned to braid," he said reasonably. "Who better to use than my favorite little poet?"

Jehan blushed even redder. "Th-thanks," he mumbled.

Courf just hummed in acknowledgement and attempted to braid Jehan's long hair, stopping periodically to ask for instructions. After about five minutes, he finally got it all figured out and began tucking the flower petals back into Jehan's hair and twisting the whole flowers within the tresses. "_Dieu_, your hair is beautiful, little poet," Courf murmured.

Jehan mumbled a thank you and, to distract himself, grabbed the Sharpie and rolled up the leg of his floral print skinny jeans to write: "_The French are glad to die for love_," on his ankle. He smiled wryly at the quote and then frowned, thinking about how true it was. If Courf would love him, he would _gladly _die for love then.

Courf leaned over. "Watcha writing, little poet?"

Jehan pulled down the leg of his pants very quickly. "Nothing, nothing," he assured his friend. "Nothing at all. Just some quotes. Meaningless quotes. From _Moulin Rouge_, you know?" He was babbling, and he knew it.

Courf grinned. "I think I saw that movie once with my cousin. She forced me to watch it, now that I remember." He then went off on a twenty minute tangent about his cousin – a girl named Marie – and how she was a sucker for romantic films. She'd dragged Courf to the cinema to see the movie for a secret midnight showing when they were ten. She had sobbed at the ending, and he'd fallen asleep. Jehan smiled, not really listening and glad Courf had forgotten about his silly quotes. _Dieu_, why did he always have to do stuff like this? Courf probably knew Jehan was head over heels for him, and was just hanging out with him to taunt him. He went white at that thought. Courf probably hated him. Yes, that was it. He was waiting for the exact moment when Jehan was at his most vulnerable and then –

"Prouvaire?"

The question broke him from his angsty thoughts for a moment. "Yes?"

"I said your name literally ten times just now, Jehan. What gives? Were you even listening to me?"

Jehan considered lying, the remembered he was a terrible liar. He blushed and blinked about a million times a minute whenever he attempted even a little white lie. "Um… no. Not really. Sorry. Something about your cousin Maria-"

"Marie."

"_Marie_. Sorry. Something about your cousin Marie dragging you to see the movie when you were twelve."

"Ten."

"Sorry," Jehan muttered.

Courf dragged the chair back to the table so he was next to Jehan. "Little poet, what's wrong? This has been happening lately whenever I see you. You get all fidgety and quiet and don't listen to a word I say. You're caught up in your own little world. But more so than usual. Is something wrong?"

Jehan blanched. Oh… _**Dieu**_. "Um… nothing, Courf. Nothing. Sorry. I just didn't get much sleep last night and I'm tired. Yes, that's… that's it. Unh… yeah," he babbled out quickly, doing his I'm-obviously-lying-blush-and-blink-a-bunch movie.

"Jean Prouvaire, I know when you're lying," Courfeyrac said coldly. "Something is bothering you. Tell me."

"_Nothing_," Jehan stressed, thinking: _MonDieuMonDieuMonDieuMonDieu. This is the moment I've dreaded for years. I've backed myself into a corner. I'm doing to have to admit that I love him and- _

"TELL ME, JEHAN!" Courf cried, throwing his hands in the air.

Jehan whimpered and lifted his shirtsleeves, showing his quotes. "_Love is like oxygen!_" and "_Love is a many splendored thing!_"

Courf's brow wrinkled. "What? What does that mean? That's… that's from the movie, right?"

Jehan nodded and lifted his pink sweater, revealing the statement: "_The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return._"

Courf's eyes filled with confusion. "Being loved is good," he allowed. "Someone loving you back is better."

Jehan showed the final quote: "_The French are glad to die for love._" He took a deep, deep breath. In a voice that was much more even than he would have ever imagined, he said: "Robin de Courfeyrac… I love you. I have been in love with you since the day we met when we were eleven. You're charming and handsome and I love everything about you, even the fact that you bring a different girl home every night. I love your hair and I love your eyes, but most of all I just love _you_. Every single poem I write is about you, every single quote I scribble is about you, every single thought I have is about you. You're my everything, and I just want you to know that. I know you like girls, and I know I'll never be able to live up to your expectations, and I understand if you don't want to talk to me anymore. But whenever I'm around you, I just feel so excited and uncomfortable and awkward all at the same time… I love you."

Courfeyrac eyes were wide. He gulped and faced Jehan, looking into his beautiful eyes. "Jean Prouvaire," he said quietly, "I love you too. I didn't want to admit it at first, but when I was fifteen, I finally realized it. I thought you were too preoccupied with your poetry to notice anything good about me. I mean, I drink too much, I smoke, I can't commit to a relationship. You're sweet and innocent and cute and all I have is charm. You're so self-confident, and sometimes I don't even know why I'm alive. You're so stable and I'm just… not. I'm not good enough for you."

Jehan took Courf's hand and squeezed it, saying seriously, "Don't you dare say that again."

Courf kissed Jehan, and wasn't seeing quotes this time, but stars.

**Second Authors Note: Well, we've reached the end of the chapter. PLEASE review, and tell me what you thought. I'm not super big on it, but I think it's okay. This is only my second time writing a Jehan/Courf piece, and my first time publishing one. Yeah. Sorry for all the "Moulin Rouge" references. I just love that movie. Well, bye! :D **


	2. to thine own self be true

**Bonjour, mes amis! Thank you so much for the kind reviews! ^^ So, I know I've been requested a bunch of other things, but here's some Joly/Bossuet! It was supposed to be a Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta chapter, but somehow I just couldn't get past this flashback piece. So there you have it. Here are your replies:**

**Sarahbob: Sorry FF wouldn't let you log in. And I love the movie too! **

**ViridianNight: Thank you so much! :D**

**Sarahbob: Oh, it DID let you log in. And THANKS!**

**frustratedstudent: Glad you liked it. And no, they will not all be modern AUs. This one is too, but the next one won't be.**

**J91: Thanks! ^^**

**TheJondretteGirls: Glad you like it! HOW CAN YOU NOT SHIP JEHAN/COURF?! *gasps* Just kidding. I respect your shipping tastes! Congrats on your roles in Les Mis, you two. Also, the Azelma/R fluff will be done!**

**FluffyWerewolves: Thank you so much! I feel somewhat tempted to come to England and hug you. Curse you oceans!**

XXX

Musichetta was twelve years old. She was in the seventh grade, and considered a punk by most of the kids at school. She had a penchant for wearing black, had a shaved head, and a stormy disposition. Her parents were very religious people, almost to the point where it worried others. They warned Musichetta to change her ways within three weeks, or she would be faced with the choice of repenting and moving to an all-girls Catholic school three states away… or being kicked out of the house. Defiant to the end, 'Chetta had declared, "I'd rather be kicked out and live on the streets than go to school with a bunch 'a bible thumpers!"

And so she'd been kicked out.

At first it was okay, because it was September, and the weather was warm. She ate food from the garbage can behind a fancy restaurant, drank out of public water fountains, and slept in the park. No one bothered the tough-looking, stubble-headed girl, and she didn't talk to anyone. She missed sleeping in a bed, but she didn't miss school and church and all the pretentious brats there. That was… until October rolled around. The weather got a dramatically colder, and the fact that the only warm piece of clothing she owned was a black hoodie began to come up as glaring. The next day, the owner of the restaurant threatened to call the cops if she took food from his garbage again. She couldn't find the soup kitchen, and things began to get worse and worse until suddenly she hadn't eaten in three (or was it four?) days, and was too weak to look for water. She had dragged herself into an alley the night before, and that was where Musichetta swore she was doomed to die.

She wrapped her skinny arms around her knees and tried to stop the pounding headache and shaking that wracked her body. Everything hurt, from her head to her stomach to her eyes. She felt the world becoming hazy, and thought about collapsing from dehydration and exhaustion. Before this could happen though, twin shadows fell across her, blocking out the cold sunlight. "Get away," 'Chetta mumbled. "Please, I don't have any money or anything."

The first shadow shook as it chuckled. A boy kneeled down and patted her arm. He looked maybe two or three years older than her, at about fourteen or fifteen. "Hey, kid. We're not trying to rob you. We're trying to help you."

The second shadow kneeled down beside the first boy. It was a boy with orangey-blonde hair, too pale skin and a red nose, as if he were fighting a cold. He sneezed into his elbow and offered a small smile. "I'm Joly. My dad's a doctor, and my mom's a nurse. I can tell you right now that you're in trouble." A nervous look crossed his face. "Um… you're too pale. Your eyes are bloodshot, and you're shaking." He began to look somewhat panicked. "You-you're not noticing odd discoloration in your fingers and toes, are you? Or a-abnormal bumps on your tongue? Or yellowing of the eyes?" he squeaked, his breath quickening.

The first boy put a hand on Joly's arm. "Jollly, calm down. You're scaring the girl." He gave a lopsided grin and cocked his head. "Sorry, kid. My Joly here's a hypochondriac."

Musichetta pretended to know what this meant and smiled weakly. "I'm Musichetta," she said.

"I'm Bossuet," the boy said. "Or Lesgle. Or Laigle. Or Baldy Boy to my more obnoxious friends." He turned and gave Joly a pointed look.

"That's only under special circumstances," he said with a wink, recovering from his previous bout of freak out before.

Musichetta did notice that Bossuet (or Lesgle, or Laigle, or Baldy Boy) was completely bald. The young teen must shave his head or something. She grinned slightly. "Alright."

"Now, let's see about this," Joly murmured. He offered hand and pulled Musichetta up. Her stomach growled loudly. He frowned and bit his lip. "You haven't eaten in a while, have you?"

"No," 'Chetta murmured, almost ashamed.

"We'll see about that!" Bossuet grinned. While Joly suffered from a sudden sneezing attack, Bossuet swept an arm under the skinny girl's legs and carried her like a new bride out of the alley. She wrapped her arms around his neck, surprised.

"Thanks," she mumbled with a smile.

"No problem, Musichetta!" Bossuet said happily. Joly caught up with them, and the three continued down the sidewalk. Joly and Bossuet chatted amiably, Joly pointing out more than once that his cold could be the early stages of a fatal disease, and Bossuet assuring him it wasn't. They included Musichetta in the conversation whenever they could, but she preferred to be silent and listen. After about ten minutes, she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep so they would stop including her and talk around her. She liked hearing their voices. They chatted about everything under the sun, from their school and their crazy teachers to movies that they enjoyed and planned on seeing. Joly talked excitedly about a new vaccine that his father was working on that was like a better version of the flu shot. Bossuet mmm-hmm'd at the appropriate parts, and Musichetta had a feeling Joly was more passionate about the medical field than Bossuet.

Eventually, she cracked an eye, wondering where these strange boys were taking her. They were walking through a public park, and Musichetta had no idea where she was. She didn't feel scared, though; she felt immensely safe. She closed her eyes again, and this time actually began to fall asleep. As she drifted, she heard Joly remark: "Musichetta falling asleep." There was a brief pause. "Laigle… what are we gonna do with her? We don't know her. Does she have parents? If she does, where are they? She's what – twelve, thirteen? She's too young to be homeless."

Bossuet stopped walking. "I know, Joly. We do need to help her, though. Kid's skinny as a stick. I'm gonna set her down for a minute; my arms are tired." She felt herself being lowered down on a park bench and surrendered to sleep.

When Musichetta awoke, the sun was just setting. She'd probably been asleep for about two hours. Cursing her rumbling stomach, 'Chetta looked for Joly and Bossuet, wondering briefly if they'd ditched her. She shook her head quickly, trying to banish the thought. When Musichetta did locate them, what she saw frankly shocked her: Bossuet was leaning against a tree, his head drooping and leaning on Joly's. Joly had his arms around Bossuet's chest and his head buried in the crook of his neck. There was nothing friendly about that. That was **coupley**. Huh, I guess I just made up a new word, Chetta thought. She shrugged – who was she to judge? – and staggered over to the two, weak on her feet. She tapped Bossuet's bald head and gave him a lopsided grin when he blearily opened his eyes.

"Hey," he mumbled sleepily, and then cast Joly a look. "Oh… I guess you know about this now."

Musichetta shrugged again. "Love is love," she said.

Bossuet smiled. "You know what? I love you right now, kid. No one I've ever met has said that. I mean… not many people know, but those who do have pretty much the same response."

"What?"

"Something like: 'You're only fifteen. You're both too young to know this.' Then again, that is if they're not calling me a fa – well, you get it."

'Chetta frowned deeply. "Why? Of course you know." Then she paused. "I thought you were fourteen."

Bossuet grinned. "I love you even more. And to answer your question, I'm fifteen and Jollly's fourteen."

"I'm twelve," Musichetta said.

Bossuet nodded and roused Joly, picking Musichetta back up and the three of them continued on their way.


	3. ignorance is the curse of god

_**Bonjour, mes beaux et miserable amis**_**! **_**Merci, merci**_** for all of your wonderful reviews! I know I promised a certain many people E/R, and the E/R in IKEA is coming soon – I promise – but I wanted to do something not slashy. So, as requested by TheJondretteGirls, here's some Grantaire/Azelma. Warning for dark elements, suicidal thoughts, and death! :D One-sided E/R if you squint. **

**XXX**

Grantaire was a cynic. A man who drowned his sorrows in the bottle and scrawled harsh sketches on paper when he could afford it. A man who mocked his friends and their Republican ideals. A man who didn't care for their "new world." He didn't believe in God; he didn't believe in hope. But he _did _believe in two things: Apollo… and Hestia. His Hestia, the passionate, the innocent. Cunning and modest, yet wise and wry. Young as she was, she carried the knowledge of the world on her bony shoulders. She was the single snow-white trillium among dark, broken-souled briars. She was the glowing fire crackling over the bitter, hard-hearted ground. She was… hope. Exactly what he didn't believe in, and yet was forced to believe.

Her name was Azelma Thénardier, and she was the love of his life.

And now he was about to leave her and die a bloody death, all because of one man. _Apollo_. Curse that damned… _god_. Though he swore with all of his heart he loved Azelma, he still craved the man's – or was he really a god? – approval and acceptance. The man neither approved of nor accepted Grantaire, and that was the single reason he was going off to die for a cause he didn't believe in.

_Dieu_, if Apollo would just say the words: "I accept you, Grantaire." Hell, even if Apollo just said his name, for once. Not "winecask." Not "Dionysus." Not "you slovenly, useless drunkard!"

_There is more to me than my drink, cruel Apollo_, Grantaire thought as he watched Azelma sleep. She was breathing softly, her light chestnut ringlets splayed around, tickling his arm and nose. Her face was buried in the crook of his arm, and the sight broke his heart. _In my life, I have my art and Azelma. Not counting the wretched drink, these things are all I have. And now they'll both be gone. _He had tried to dissuade himself from fighting at the barricades time and time again. These internal arguments lasted for hours, causing many a sleepless night. _What will you do without Azelma? _quickly turned into: _Can you live without Apollo? _The answer to this was a resounding no. How could Grantaire live without the golden sun god? He brought a small piece of meaning to the drunkard's otherwise meaningless life. _But what about your art? And what about your Hestia? _The damnable questions nipped at his mind for hours. He couldn't live without his Hestia; he couldn't live without his Apollo. Azelma wasn't going anywhere, but there was no way Apollo wouldn't fight – and die – with his comrades. _Maybe I should just kill myself if I really can't live without either of them_, he thought bitterly. One gunshot, one flick of a knife, one jump into the Seine. But could he really do that to Azelma? Apollo would move on. Hell, he probably wouldn't care. But Azelma? She would probably kill herself right after Grantaire. She'd think it was her own fault. She would cause herself as much suffering as possible before death; that much was true. She'd carve just deep enough to cause immense pain and ensure death, but it would take hours. She'd hurl herself at the sharp stones in the river instead of the water. She would –

_STOP_, Grantaire commanded himself. Thinking such things was horrible. He reached up a shaky hand and stroked Azelma's hair, murmuring, "_Je t'amie, mon_ Hestia."

She stirred in her sleep, mumbling, "_Et je t'amie aussi, mon_ Dionysus."

Grantaire flinched at the nickname, reminding himself it was spoken from the lips of someone who loved him. _Love_. The word pained him. He wrapped his arms tightly around Azelma and kissed her hair. "Azelma… there is something I need to tell you," he blurted.

She looked up and smiled sleepily. "_Oui, mon amore_?"

"You know I love you," he said. "And I would die for our love. But… I am dying as we speak. Apollo, he scorns and spurns me when all I want is his approval. Tomorrow he's going to fight at the barricades, and he's going to die. I know this. And I can't live without him… so I'm going as well."

That woke Azelma right up. She shot up, the strap of her nightdress slipping. She didn't bother to readjust it and just stared at him, her ringlets wild and disheveled. A hurt look crossed into her eyes and she frowned, almost a pout. "What? Grantaire… you're joking."

Grantaire bit his lip until he felt blood, and then yelped and cursed. "Ow! No, I mean… I'm not joking. I am sorry." He tried to reach for her, but she jerked away.

"How _could _you, Nicolas?!" she seethed. "I tell you I love you, and you return it, you say. If you really love me, then why are you going to _die_?"

"Apollo –" Grantaire started, but Azelma cut him off sharply.

"Apollo!" she spat bitterly. "Apollo, Apollo, _Apollo_! He is all you ever talk about, Nicolas Grantaire! Who do you love – him or me?"

"You, of course I love you! I'm not in love with the man, I'm-"

"Oh aren't you?" Azelma growled. "You call him the name of a god! His name is Julien Enjolras, Nicolas. Not Apollo. Not 'Fearless Leader.' Just Enjolras." Crystal tears began to pour down her cheeks, and Grantaire felt the wild urge to capture them in a sketch. His fingers unconsciously twitched, drawing phantom illustrations.

"I know, Azelma," he sighed wearily. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You don't understand, though… how it feels to all but _worship_ someone when they hate you. Apol- _Enjolras_, he won't accept me unless I die for the cause, and I_ need_ his acceptance." He cast Azelma a heartbroken look.

She just glared death back at him. "I do know, Nicolas. You think I don't," she snorted. "Maman, Papa, _cher_ 'Ponine, even Gavroche! All 'Ponine cares about is her M'sieur Marius, and Gavroche doesn't care about any of us." She looked at him through her thick eyelashes. "You."

"Hestia-"

"_No_!" she screamed. "You listen to me, Nicolas Grantaire! I know how it feels with you. No matter how much I love you, it will never be enough. You love me, yes, but you love Apollo more." She drew her bony knees to her chest and muttered into them, "Never have I hated or admired a man more. Hated him for taking all of your attention and making you so miserable, and admiring him for having something enough to capture your affections. Nothing I do will be good enough, Grantaire."

And with that, Grantaire made the decision. Some may view it as utterly selfish, and no one – not even Grantaire – will say otherwise. He took Azelma's hands gently in his own and said, "Die with me."

"What?" Azelma whimpered. She had lost all of her righteous anger from before, and was now like a kicked dog – confused and saddened.

"I can't live without you or Apollo," Grantaire said. "If _you_ can't live without _me_, then die with me. I know this is horrible, and I know it's selfish. I know I'm probably going to Hell for this, but Azelma, I can't imagine life without you."

"I can't imagine life without you," Azelma echoed emptily. She looked into Grantaire's blue eyes, and felt like she was really _seeing_ him for the first time. She cocked her head to the side and nodded, then pressed her face to Grantaire's chest and sobbed. "I'm not ready to die, Nicholas," she wept.

"Nor I," Grantaire said, stroking her hair. "Nor I."

XXX

The next day, many tragic events took place. Azelma watched as her beloved sister blocked a gun with her hand and ended up shot, bleeding out on the rain-slick cobbles in the arms of that tragically obtuse bastard, M'sieur Marius as the two sang to each other. Grantaire watched as the happy little guttersnipe Gavroche pranced outside the barricade to gather ammunition from dead soldiers and ended up shot dead by soldiers who grinned and nudged each other, murmuring, "Good shot!" Azelma watched her little brother get carried back to the barricade in the arms of a handsome dandy, who screamed obscenities at the National Guard before collapsing to the ground, sobbing. Grantaire watched Bossuet die in the arms of his best friend Joly, both of them smiling at each other fondly. Azelma watched the student with spectacles – Combeferre – try to lift up an injured friend before having three bayonets thrust cruelly into his chest, his eyes rolling skyward before going glassy with death. Grantaire watched his friends dying. Azelma watched her family dying.

And now, in the heat of battle, Grantaire couldn't believe he had been so utterly _selfish_ as to bring Azelma here. He watched Courfeyrac go down and bit his lip, tears trickling down his cheeks. _See you in Heaven, Courf_, he thought, before remembering God probably had a very different place planned out for him.

Azelma choked out a sob and clung to Grantaire, screaming, "WHEN WILL THIS END?!"

A National Guardsman heard Azelma and barreled toward her bayonet-first, growling. Grantaire, who had no weapon, tugged her out of the way and dragged her into the Musain. "_Mon Dieu_, Azelma. I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. I will get you out of this alive, I swear. We need to lie low for a little while, _non_?" He spoke to her as if he were speaking to a scared child.

Azelma nodded fearfully; neither of them believed Grantaire. "Grantaire, I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too," Grantaire managed. He took her in his arms and carried her up the nearly skeletal-looking staircase and into the top room of the Café. There he saw the sight that ended his life – Apollo facing down the guns of a semicircle of Guardsmen with a determined face. Before he knew what he was doing, Grantaire blundered over to the man, Azelma still in his arms.

Enjolras raised a cool eyebrow and nodded at Grantaire. "_Vive la Republique_," said he.

"_Vive amour_," Grantaire whispered to Azelma, who gave him the most terrified, desperate look he had ever seen.

When the shots had been fired, Enjolras, head tilted downward, was pinned to the wall by eight bullets. Grantaire collapsed at his feet, a devout follower prostrated at the feet of the worshiped one, even in death. Azelma lay off to the side, her bloody fingers just barley gracing Grantaire's.

**Hope I didn't kill your soul. :3 **


	4. boldness be my friend

_Bonjour, mes beaux et miserable amis_! So, Marius/Cosette and Enjolras/Combeferre are coming up REALLY soon, I swear. But I promised my I'm-pretty-sure-we-were-separated-at-birth friend: messed up stargazer an E/R in IKEA with a frustrated Combeferre. Plus a bit of Eponine/Combeferre for a writer I admire and beta for: guineamania! Updates may be a bit slower, because our play premiers in one week and… I have an audition next Saturday … FOR _LES MISERABLES_! An actual production of it – not even a school one. A professional, actual production. I want to be 'Ponine or a Lovely Lady. :3 Wish me luck, _mes amis_! (Oh, and one more bit. Thank you _so much_ for the reviews – and a quick note to linzo98: You may not know this, but that was the biggest compliment I have ever received. I would hug you.)

XXX

Combeferre was beginning to regret this. Actually, he was pretty sure he had begun to regret this the moment they walked in. It had started off innocent enough – he was trying to get his best friend away from the laptop for an afternoon. The poor boy worked himself half to death slaving over papers not yet due and speeches that he was going to deliver in two months. Plus, the poly sci degree he'd been trying to get didn't come easy. No one could successfully distract Julien Enjolras but his boyfriend Grantaire, and even the semi-happy cynic was hard-pressed to distract him. So Combeferre had conspired with Grantaire for a good three hours about how to convince the revolutionary to take an afternoon off. Finally, somehow, Grantaire had managed to convince Enjolras to get the day off, and they had all – with the addition of Combeferre's girlfriend 'Ponine – piled into Combeferre's car and drove to IKEA.

On the way, Combeferre decided that if he was ever going to turn into a homicidal maniac, Enjolras and Grantaire would be the first people he'd kill. The whole trip there, Enjolras whined about his speeches and his papers, and Grantaire muttered about how he was "Much too sober for this." The two men snipped at each other the entire trip and Combeferre couldn't even exchange weary glances with 'Ponine the way he usually did when stuff like this happened – she had her headphones in, listening to a German language learning recording for class. So he was all alone floating on an island of obnoxiously-sober Grantaire and not-actually-deserving-to-be-stressed Enjolras.

When they finally arrived at the store, Combeferre snapped, "Okay. All of you get _out_ of my car."

Enjolras and Grantaire trundled out, still arguing with each other. "Your essay isn't due for _three weeks_, Apollo!" Grantaire all but whined.

"Stop calling me that!" Enjolras snapped. "And it is important to start projects in advance. Some of us, unlike _you_, Nicolas Grantaire, have priorities."

Combeferre felt his eye twitch. He took a deep breath, ignored a confused-looking 'Ponine, and shouted, "BOTH OF YOU JUST _SHUT_! _UP_! CAN'T YOU TWO STOP ARGUING FOR ONE AFTERNOON?!" He got a few weird looks from passersby as he yelled. A woman with about a million crying kids glared at him.

That silenced the bickering pair for a moment, and they gave each other mildly apologetic glances. _Why don't you two apologize to _me_? _ Combeferre thought sourly. "Sorry," he muttered to the still-scowling woman. She harrumphed and stalked off, dragging her brood of whiny kids behind her. He turned to 'Ponine and gave her a look that said: _Help me_.

She popped out her ear buds, asking something in German. Laughing at the blank looks from the rest of her friends, she switched to French. "Sorry," she chuckled. "I kinda missed that whole thing. What now?"

Combeferre sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nothing," he growled. "_Nothing_." He took Eponine's hand and walked into the giant store, followed by a now subdued Enjolras and Grantaire, also holding hands. He sometimes wondered why they were even together, snapping at each other one moment and being lovey dovey the next. Before he could ponder this question further, he saw Enjolras's eyes light up in a most concerning manner. "Oh. _No_," Combeferre breathed. It was at times like this when he seriously regretted being reincarnated in the 21st century. Of course, he was eternally grateful for his chance to be with Eponine, and glad that Grantaire's unrequited love was finally requited, as it were, but some old habits die hard… like Enjolras and his love for stacking furniture. His eyes went wide and somewhat glassy as he stared in amazement at all of the furniture. His fingers twitched.

Grantaire threw his friends a helpless glance, snapping his fingers in front of his boyfriend's eyes. "Enj… I think we should leave," Grantaire said slowly.

That was a mistake.

XXX

Three hours, one hundred thirty-one random furniture items, five _very_ angry security guards, and a two thousand dollar fine later, Enjolras sat quietly in t he back of Combeferre's car. He was looking down at his lap, abashed. Finally, Combeferre took a breath and said, "I am going to try my hardest not to kill you, okay?"

Enjolras nodded. "I said I was sorry," he sulked.

"That doesn't change a thing. We're not allowed back in IKEA for the rest of our lives, Julien!" Combeferre snapped.

Eponine giggled. "Still, though, the looks on everyone's faces_ was_ pretty funny," she allowed.

Combeferre nodded begrudgingly. The looks of horror, amusement, and confusion among others on the faces of the customers and employees of IKEA had been quite the sight to see. Enjolras had seemingly gone crazy, stacking furniture in a barricade, all the while shouting at the confused costumers to "RISE AGAINST THE TYRANNY!" Enjolras had looked pretty crazy, his curly blonde hair flying and his blue eyes twinkling somewhere between mirth and insanity.

Combeferre, 'Ponine, and Grantaire had stood off to the side, 'Ponine looking amused, Combeferre looking horrified, and Grantaire looking mildly… proud.

Combeferre sighed deeply and pinched the bride of his nose again. _Dieu_, his friends.

Well, sorry it was so short. I'm "short" on inspiration!


	5. ask your heart what it doth know

**Hi! So, my play premiers in two days, and then my audition for **_**Les Mis**_** is on Saturday. Plus, I've got to study for my Spanish final and my science final, so I might be updating a little less. The next story to be updated will be **_**Three Daughters, Three Beaux, and One Hero**_**; I promise! So, this is a Marius/Cosette one-shot as requested by Reese, one half of TheJondretteGirls. I'm sorry for making this kind of tragic. I mean, I'm a teenage girl. What do you expect?**

**-Georgie**

**XXX**

Cosette lifted her heavy skirts and moved to answer the knock at her door. _Dear God, please let it be Marius_, she prayed, and called to her father: "I've got it, Papa!" The older man shuffled back into his room, and Cosette opened the door. A little guttersnipe stood there, blonde hair tangled and cheeks dirtied. He looked jittery, as if he had somewhere he desperately wanted to be. Cosette gave him a gentle smile, sighing and wishing it was Marius. "Hello, _petit_," she said. "What is it that you need?"

The young boy cocked his head at her. He glanced at a piece of paper in his hands and studied it, squinting. Finally, he gave up on reading it and shoved the paper at her. "_Vous cette fille_?" he asked.

Cosette saw her name on the paper and her heart soared. "_Oui_," she breathed. She held out her hand for the paper. "Please, give it here. Is… is it from Marius?" she dared asked.

The boy held out his hand. "Somethin' for you, somethin' for me," he said with a cocky grin, bouncing on feet.

"Of course," Cosette murmured distractedly. _Marius_, she thought numbly. She grabbed a few sous and all but hurled them at the young gamin. They landed on the ground, scattering. The boy scrambled, grabbing the coins. He thrust the letter at her and winked. "It's from M. Marius," he said. With a knowing smile, he nodded at the letter and said, "See you at the barricades." With that, the little boy ran away.

Cosette didn't bother to wonder what the boy's cryptic message meant. "See you at the barricades." She almost tore the letter in half in her haste to get it open. Her eyes greedily devoured the words on the page, and she read the letter three times to make sure what she had heard was right. Marius intended to die at the barricades. He loved her… and he intended to die. _Now that I know that you love me too, it makes it harder to die. _She felt tears running down her face as a mental image slowly appeared in her mind. It was Marius, dear Marius, lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Maybe his head was a disgusting mess of brain, bullet, and blood. Maybe his stomach was a crimson mincemeat wasteland. Maybe –

"Stop!" Cosette sobbed at herself. _Please God_, she prayed, _please let him live. Please don't let him die. I love him. _She wept into her hands for a good five minutes, her shoulders shaking and her breathing ragged, before finally gaining some composure. She didn't want Papa checking in with her and discovering a whimpering mess. Taking a deep breath, Cosette experienced a moment of clarity. "I must save him," she whispered to herself. Almost in a trance, Cosette snatched a pair of Papa's trousers and a shirt from the small pile of clothes to be washed. She ripped the heavy dress and chemise off of her body and pulled on the large breeches, grabbing a piece of rope to tighten them. She pulled the shirt on and tucked it into the pants, rolling the sleeves up and cuffing them. She did the same with the legs of the trousers, stuffing her feet into Papa's boots and lacing them tightly. With that, the girl called out, "I'm sorry, Papa! I love you!" and ran from the apartment.

XXX

"There's a boy – no… a _girl_ – climbing the barricade!" Joly shouted from his perch on an overturned table.

Marius paid no heed to the hypochondriac's call and continued staring at the pavement, tears blurring his vision. _Cosette_, he thought, and chanced a look up. "_Cosette_!" he screamed, and ran to her. She was wearing men's clothing that was miles too big. _Why is she here? She'll get herself shot_, a disapproving part of him thought. Just as the thought was finished, a report rang out.

Cosette – now on top of the barricade – jerked spasmodically, her booted feet slipping on a chair as she tumbled down the stacked furniture. Finally, she landed on her back on the ground.

It was begun to rain.

Marius ran to her, a sob catching in his throat. "Cosette!" he cried. Turning to the barricade, he roared, "HOW COULD YOU SHOOT AN INNOCENT GIRL! _I LOVE HER_!" at the National Guard. There was a silence in reply. He knelt on the ground and took the broken girl in his arms. "Cosette," he sobbed, "what have you done?" He could feel her blood soaking into his clothes and moaned, "Oh, God it's everywhere."

Cosette reached up and stroked his face, pulling in a shuddering breath. The rain fell softly around them. "I-I," she gasped, "your letter. I couldn't let you d-die alone."

"Mother of God," Marius muttered. "This is all my fault. Oh, Cosette. Cosette, I'm so sorry," he sobbed. "Where are you hurt?"

"My… leg," Cosette managed through gritted teeth. "And… my arm. My stomach as well." She took a deep breath and looked at Marius. "Marius… I don't want to die," she whispered.

"You won't feel any pain," Marius murmured. "Cosette… you will live, I swear to it." He picked her up in his arms and turned to Joly and Combeferre, tears running down his face. "Please… 'Ferre, Joly. Can you do anything for her? Please tell me you can," he begged.

Joly frowned; he looked shaken. "Marius, _mon ami_, I don't think there is much of a chance. But we'll try."

Marius sobbed in response, all but thrusting Cosette at Joly and Combeferre. She winced in pain, and the young medics carried her into the Café. Marius sank against the brick wall, his head in his hands. How could he send the letter to Cosette, his _petit alouette_, and not expect her to come to the barricades? Why was he so selfish? He sat like that for some while until he heard gunshots. He jumped up and grabbed his carbine… just as Joly exited the Café with a grim look and shake of his head.

And Marius?

Well, when one has nothing to fight for, the battles are generally shorter.

**I'm sorry for this. I know it kinda sucked. Eh, what can ya do? Please review! :3 **


	6. a woman, friendless, hopeless

_**Bonjour, mes amis**_**! I'm sorry for my last chapter. It was kinda crappy. So, since today is the first half of Barricade Day, tonight is the night Eponine would have died. So I wrote this. The writing style is a little different, and I used present tense, so tell me what you thought! **

**-Georgie**

She can't believe her eyes. There is her Marius – and yes, she thinks of him as "hers" – standing in the light of a torch. He is threatening to blow the barricade and himself with it. But no, that just doesn't make sense. He can't blow the barricade because he'll die. And then she won't have anything to live for. Not even an unrequited love. And the torch is flickering, lighting his face with a pale orange glow. He looks like a ghost, a beautiful, beautiful ghost.

And the soldier runs back down to his own side of the barricade, yelling to his men about the crazy boy who will get us all killed so don't attack and don't worry we'll still beat them my brothers just stay put for a bit.

And she, for the first time in her life, thanks God. She whispers, "Thank you for letting him live." She doesn't rage at God for all of the horrible things He's dealt her, and she doesn't pray for a better life. She just thanks Him for letting her Marius live. And now the torch is out, and it's dark again.

And suddenly, Marius is beside her again. He doesn't know it's her; he thinks she's some boy. A friend of Joly, perhaps. Joly has lots of doctor friends, he once told her. She'll be willing to bet that he doesn't think she was listening then. He likes to talk about things to her. He tells her all sorts of interesting tidbits, things the _Amis_ wouldn't care about. Like about the flower he saw growing in the middle of winter when he was eleven. Or how he enjoys pastries bit too much for his own good, especially things with jam in the middle. How he doesn't see how Courf is always losing his hat. How his shoes are too small.

How he fell in love at first sight.

Oh, he talks plenty about that. He talks about seeing her through the thick crowd of people, catching her eyes, losing her for a moment, and then catching her again. He thanks her a lot – for finding his lark. And he thanks her for saving the pretty little bird's house from a robbery. How his lark could have even_ died_ if she hadn't screamed.

And then of course her Marius talks about how he hopes to marry the lark one day. Have a brood of children with her; maybe take in some children from the street. Maybe some animals. They'll be one big, happy, charitable family. How fun.

_ But what about __**her**__? _

_Why can't __**she**__ marry him?_

_They could take her younger brother and sister off of the streets._

_ Give them a good life._

_ She'd even let him have some children if he wanted._

_ She wouldn't mind._

_ She'd be a good wife._

_ Dutiful and quiet, if he wanted._

_ Or if he liked her feisty spirit, she would keep that._

_ Engage him in friendly arguments._

_ Kiss him right on the lips when he got home every day._

The very thought makes her shiver with delight. And then she remembers where she is, and just shivers with fear. She sees her Marius climbing the barricade again. Why is he doing this? He'll get himself killed! _Dieu_, she sounds like a scolding mother. And then she thinks about having children with him and being a mother again, and blushes, wishing more than anything that this was a reality. She prefers to live inside her head, but for once, can't she just have one daydream come true?

And now she sees a soldier creeping up the barricade. And her heart stops.

_He has a gun._

_ He has a gun with a bayonet on it._

_ He is getting closer to her Marius with each second._

_ He will shoot her Marius._

_ And her Marius is going to die._

_ He won't ever laugh again._

_ Won't tease her._

_ Won't look at her with those eyes._

_ Unless… she saves him._

And suddenly she's clambering up the barricade, shoving overturned chairs out of her way, her feet scrabbling for a hold on what appears to be the keys of a broken piano. And she thrusts herself in front of her Marius. She looks at the national guardsman, whispers, "No." She puts her hand of the muzzle of his gun.

And he shoots. And the bullet goes through her hand and into her chest. And she collapses.

Marius is in shock. He whispers, "What have you done?"

And she sniffs, and knows she's about to die. It begins to rain softly. She looks at him with pleading eyes and reaches into her jacket, handing him a piece of paper. "This is for you," she manages. "It's from… your lark…" Even as she dies, she can't say the girl's name. "I kept it from you… I'm sorry."

He kneels down and takes her in his arms, ignoring the paper. Her wounded heart soars. _She is in his arms, and he ignored something from his lark just to be with HER!_ Suddenly, some sort of poetry shoots into her head and she murmurs something about rain making the flowers grow, how she's fine with her death. At peace.

"But you will live, my dear," he whispers into her hair. He tries to look at her wound, but she bats him away with bloody fingers.

"Just hold me now and let it be," she commands. He wraps his arms tighter around her, his body shaking with sobs. But, no… she doesn't want him to cry. _That's not right._ She's doing something wrong. She looks up at him. "What… have I done… wrong?" she asks, something beginning to hurt a bit.

"Nothing, my love," he whispers. "You saved my life."

'_My love.' He just called me… his love_, she thinks euphorically. She smiles at him, and blurts out something she has been meaning to say for a very long time. "I do believe I was a little in love with you."

And he smiles at her.

And her vision goes black.


	7. speak low, if you speak love

_**Bonjour mes beaux et miserable amis! **_**Well, my audition for Les Mis was yesterday… and IT WENT PERFECTLY! ^_^ Let's hope I get cast. I was the youngest auditionee there, and there are over 200 auditonees in all, so let's pray! Anyway, I've gotten a request for some É/E from a couple of you Little Lovelies. I actually love this shipping, which I guess you wouldn't really expect since I ship E/R like crazy! BTW, see if you can catch the reference to Chapter Four: Enjolras in IKEA! ;) **_**Free one-shot for anyone who does.**_** Here are your replies from chapters five and six:**

**Solaria daughter of Apollo: I'm really glad you thought it was well-written; thank you! I do use OCs! :3 And sure, some crazy fluffy 'Ponine/R coming up soon!**

**frustratedstudent: I do agree. **

**Lestatlover1784: Thank you, my dear! 'Ponine/Enjy coming up as requested!**

**stagepageandscreen: You're crying? Honest to Dieu crying? You may not know, but I've always wanted my writing to make someone cry. Oh my gosh. I'm freaking out. ^_^ **

**ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo: Sorry about your feelings, mon ami!**

**unicorn24601: Wow… you really love that shipping, I see. Well, it shall be done!**

**Kansas: Lil' Cosette/Gavroche? That could be cute! Hmm… I'll see what I can do. Now, about your OC. I don't believe that I'll do an entire separate story about the tomboyish Camille. But I'd be glad to do a chapter!**

**And finally… jf: JackalFoxx… can it really be you? Are you back? Where did you go? F and I missed you! And thank you! I'm glad you still like my writing as much as you used to. I'm so glad you're back! Please PM me so we can catch up!**

**XXX  
**

Pontmercy barged into the Musain with that urchin girl at his heels, as per usual. He was going on about some young woman he had seen, a blonde lark called Cosette. Every time Pontmercy said the girl's name, the urchin flinched, as if physically pained. Throughout the entire meeting, Pontmercy took over the conversation, excitedly describing his chance meeting with his Cosette over and over. He told of her blonde hair ("The color of the sun's rays!"), her blue eyes ("As deep and mysterious as the ocean!") and her smile ("It caught me so off guard – oh, I will never be able to equate a smile with hers!). Courfeyrac and Bahorel poked fun at the young man throughout the meeting, calling him an "infatuated pup." Grantaire even joined in the fun at one point, asking a question so wildly inappropriate about the girl that everyone in the Musain – even womanizing Courfeyrac – turned red and go silent.

After what must have been an hour of Pontmercy's dreamy sighs and far off expressions, the urchin girl jolted upright in her chair, choked out a sob, and exited the Musain running. Everyone appeared a bit confused, but passed it off as a bit of unrequited love and resumed their conversation. Joly was subject to some gentle teasing from Bossuet about his hypochondria after checking his tongue in the reflection of a spoon for the eleventh time that night. Everyone roared with laughter, and the night wore on.

The only one still thinking about the urchin girl's dramatic exit was Enjolras. He was perturbed. No one exited so violently without reason; it was simple logic. Finally, after some minutes brooding on the issue, the marble man stood up abruptly. "Combeferre, you are in charge," he directed. "I'll be back soon." Without further explanation, he calmly strode out. When outside the Musain, Enjolras contemplated on how to find the upset urchin. He knew very little of her – not even her name – so he wasn't quite sure where to find her. He knew of the shadier corners of Paris, often visiting there himself to urge the people to rise against the tyranny that subjected them to living on the streets like dogs. He didn't think the young girl would be there. She had to be street smart and savvy; able to protect herself – Enjolras didn't doubt that – but to be these things, she had to at least know that aforementioned shadowy corners were unsafe for girls.

He shuddered to think of what fate might befall her there.

Quickening his pace, Enjolras found himself walking toward the Seine. There, on the bridge, was Pontmercy's urchin, curled in on herself and shaking. Though it was rather cold out, Enjolras suspected that the lack of warmth wasn't the complete reason for her shivers. He approached the girl and put a hand on her shoulder.

She jerked and slapped his hand away, glaring up at him through her ratty, snarled hair. "Go 'way!" the girl shouted. "I ain't ever gonna do the kinda thing you want, even if I'm starvin' to death!"

Enjolras's cheeks burned. For once, Apollo was a shade other than marble-white. "Mademoiselle… I-I assure you I had no intention of –" he started.

"Oi… sorry, then," the girl said, wiping her tear-stained face free of mucus and tears. "Thought you were 'Parnasse. 'E keeps tellin' me to go down t' the docks. Says it'll earn more money fer my family."

Enjolras was slightly taken aback. "I… do not know who this 'Parnasse fellow is, but I can assure you he is not worth your time if he thinks you should do… such activities as a profession. You are much too good for that."

The dirty young thing looked up at him. "Me? Yer jokin', ain't ya? I ain't good enough for nothin'." She wasn't fishing for compliments as some self-deprecating grisettes did; she was telling what she thought to be the honest truth.

Enjolras held out a hand to her. "But this is untrue, mademoiselle," he argued. She took his hand, and he pulled her up. "You come to all of our meetings, do you not? You don't speak up much, but when you do, what you have to say is quite intelligent. I agree with your views; they are impressive." He realized he was still holding her hand, and rather awkwardly dropped it.

The girl looked disappointed for a moment, but then gave a cheeky grin. "Well, M'sieur here is givin' me the best compliments I've ever heard, and I don't even know yer name. Silly girl, I am!"

Enjolras felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She really was quite pretty when she smiled. He held out his hand formally for a handshake. "Well, lovely to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle. My name is Julien Enjolras, and you?"

She shook his hand and grinned again. "Eponine… 'r 'Ponine. Whichever ya prefer."

"Hmm," Enjolras mused, "quite a pretty name."

Eponine blushed twenty shades of red. "P-pretty?" she stammered. "Ain't no one ever called me 'r my name pretty b'fore."

Enjolras felt a rush of pity flow through his veins for this poor scrap. She was obviously hopelessly in love with Pontmercy, and from the way he had been going on about his Cosette tonight; he could guess the heartbreak 'Ponine was feeling. She was dirty – a bit odorous to be frank – poor, and seemingly had no one to care for her. She couldn't have been more than eighteen. A mere child, really. Someone calling her name pretty – a passing comment to be received with a tiny "thank you" on anyone else's part – seemed to make her feel truly special.

Enjolras had to help her.

He smiled at her. "Well, it is a lovely name for a lovely girl." At her stunned, silly smile, and deep blush, he had to admit that the girl really _was_ quite lovely. Beauty coated in grime, as it were. "Without coming across as having incorrect intentions," he started carefully, "would you like to spend the night at my flat?" At her mildly panicked expression, Enjolras smiled gently. "Nothing like that, mademoiselle. I promise. You can trust me. I can help you, you see."

Eponine's eyes narrowed. "You can 'elp me, ya say?" she growled.

"_Oui_," Enjolras said excitedly, thinking of how he could possibly acquire her a prettier dress, give her a few hot meals… maybe he really good help the girl! Though the young man had always been charitable, he had never been this excited about it.

Eponine glared death at him. She clapped her hands slowly, a sardonic smile spreading across her face. "Well, well. Lookee 'ere, world. Monsieur Enjolras wants to 'elp a poor street urchin. I ain't gonna be the good deed that gets ya into Heaven, Monsieur," she said darkly. "I ain't gonna be some pet project fer a rich student who wants to delve int' the shady side 'a life fer an adventure."

"That's not what –" Enjolras stammered.

"_Oui_, it is," Eponine argued. "What d'ya think ya'd do with me anyway? Shove me into a _nice new dress_…" – on these, words, she mocked – "… gimme a few decent meals? 'N then what, Monsieur? When yer tired 'a providin' fer someone who can't even pay rent? Will ya kick me back t' the street?" At Enjolras's defiant expression, she snickered. "Ya know it's true." With that, she flounced away.

XXX

For a few days after this incident, Enjolras replayed their conversation in his mind. _What had he said wrong? _The thought plagued him for hours, and he found himself unable to sleep for those three nights in a row. Finally, on the third day, Combeferre took the harried revolutionary aside.

"Enjolras, _mon ami_, what's wrong?" the bespectacled boy asked. "For the past few days, you've looked as if you didn't sleep, and you're not eating. You haven't talked about Patria since Tuesday. Is something the matter?"

Enjolras shook his head. "No. Yes. No. I'm… unsure."

Combeferre offered his friend a smile. "Might I ask what that means, 'Jolras?"

"This… young woman… has me quite flustered," he admitted. He went on to tell Combeferre the whole unfortunate saga, from finding Eponine crying on the bridge and deciding to help her, to being spurned by her. "I don't see what I've done wrong," Enjolras almost pouted. "I was kind and civil; I didn't say anything out of line!"

Combeferre fought a chuckle. "My dear friend, you're in love," he said with a smile. "It's as simple as that."

Enjolras cocked his head. "I'm in love with Eponine? In love, you say?" Of course, he knew what love was. He'd seen it in nearly all of the Amis. Many grisettes all but threw themselves at him. But he? In love? It didn't make sense. But at the same time… it did.

XXX

That night, he found her again. She was in the exact same spot as before, curled in on herself with shaking shoulders. Enjolras found himself wondering if Pontmercy had caused this, and thought he would quite like to smack the freckled man. He approached her cautiously. "Eponine?" he asked.

She looked up and glared through her tears. "Oi. What d'ya want, Enjolras?"

He sat down beside her and very primly announced, "I am in love with you."

Eponine gave him a wary glance. "Um… are ya right in the 'ead, M'sieur? Yer lookin' a bit flushed."

Enjolras calmly explained of his sleepless nights and his conversation with Combeferre, and how the intellectual student had come to the conclusion that Enjolras was, in fact, in love with Eponine. "So you see: I must be in love with you," Enjolras ended somewhat proudly.

"But… you didn't come t' this conclusion yerself?" the gamin asked slowly.

"No," Enjolras said happily.

"And…?"

"And?"

"Well… if ya didn't come t' the conclusion yerself, then how do ya know yer in love with me?"

"Ah… that."

"_Oui_, that."

"Well, I suppose I could find out for myself."

"How 'r ya proposin' ya do that, exactly? I'm still angry with ya."

"I didn't do anything!"

"Yer whinin'. The revolutionary leader… whinin'. Oi, 'ere I thought I'd seen it all."

"I am not "whining" as you say. I am simply upset with your conclusion that I've wronged you when I have been over and over the argument in my head and I have said nothing wrong!" Enjolras shouted. "I think about you all the time, and I know that I said nothing wrong!"

That gave Eponine some pause. "Ya… think about me all th' time?" she asked.

"Well of course!" Enjolras snapped. "When you're in love, is that not what you do?"

Eponine nodded. "More 'r less. But 'ere's the catch – how would yer friends react t' you falling fer a gamin girl?"

"They would not care," Enjolras said confidently. "We support those in all walks of life."

Eponine thought about this for a moment.

"Pontmercy broke your heart; you have every reason not to trust me, but if you do," Enjolras said, "I would be glad to have you."

"'Ave me?"

Enjolras blushed. "That came out wrong. I – gah! Never mind. Would you like to come to my flat? The offer still stands. It's quite cold out here."

Eponine gave a smile. "Ya know what… sure. 'Ow about it." They stood, and Enjolras awkwardly put his arm around her. _Yes_, Eponine thought. _This will do quite nicely. _


	8. sweet heaven

_**Bonjour, mes beaux et miserables amis! **_**So, my amazing and supportive friend who I'm pretty sure is my secret twin (messed up stargazer) gave me this idea for a chapter. All the credit for the idea goes to her. Now, I would like to thank each and every one of you for your lovely reviews. I'm at 41 REVIEWS! I love you all so much! Hugs all around. Let's see if I can get to 45 this chapter! :3 **

**I've officially finished eighth grade now, so updates will be frequent. At least one a week! And… well, I didn't get cast. It wasn't a lack of talent; I'm simply too young. RAWR. **

**Also, pack your tissues and tubs of ice cream, **_**mes amis**_**. This is the saddest chapter I've ever written.**

**XXX**

The doctors said that it was quick and painless; they were all killed right on impact. Some may have stayed awake longer than others, but they were all peaceful when they died, surrounded by the people they loved most.

But what the doctors_ didn't_ mention was how terrified they must have been when the plane hurtled toward the ocean. The raw terror they must have been feeling would have been unimaginable. Beyond having your stomach in your throat and your heart pounding and your palms clammy. Beyond… anything. He could almost hear their anguished screams and their terrified sobs in the night. There would have been the insidious fear, the horrified, twisted faces, and the terror in their eyes…

He didn't know.

But what Enjolras _did_ know was that everyone he loved was dead, and it was ruining him. He was lost without his guide, empty without his centre, beautyless without his poet or his fan maker. Unknowledgeable without his medic, humorless without his unlucky one or dopey loverboy. Spiritless without his brawler, cheerless without his little mascot. Those boys made his life worth something.

He couldn't hold a pen without thinking of Feuilly and his beautiful sketches. He couldn't write a speech without feeling Combeferre leaning over him, smiling gently and humming as he read over Enjolras's shoulder. He couldn't look at a deck of cards without hearing Bossuet exclaiming "ARG! I'm so unlucky!" He couldn't take his pills (antidepressants given to him after a few unfortunate instances) without thinking of Joly snatching the bottle away with bugged eyes, shrieking out the names of ingredients no one else could pronounce, and asking Enjolras if he even _knew_ of all the infectious diseases he could get from them.

And the girls of the group as well; thinking about them rent his soul in two. Never again would gritty-voiced Eponine laugh alongside the trilling Cosette as Musichetta cracked some wry joke. Never again would they attend to "their boys" as they called them, Eponine taking Courfeyrac for a twirl, Cosette shyly linking hands with Marius, and Musichetta teasing Joly and Bossuet into a dance.

He couldn't do anything without thinking of his friends, and it was taking a toll on him. He still attended his classes – even emotionally destroyed, he was still a diligent student – although he didn't raise his hand, didn't have his usual infamous debates with the professor, and stayed dead-eyed the entire class. He did his required homework, and that was all.

At night it was the worst.

He would go home and lock his door, then get right to his homework. He'd be lucky if it lasted him an hour. Somehow, he'd fall into bed, and that's when the night terrors would start. Horrific nightmares of his friends returning from death, of being on the plane all alone while it plummeted toward the ocean, and… of R. He would dream of Grantaire, his stubbly face twisted into a mask of horror, screaming: "WHY, APOLLO?!" There were so many others that were so horrible he couldn't even bear to speak then aloud.

Like tonight.

He crashed into bed and almost immediately fell asleep. And then the nightmares tormented him…

XXX

_Everyone boarded the plane, laughing and joking with each other. They were all at ease except for Marius (having a freak out about taking Cosette from her father) and Joly (apparently he was acrophobic as well as a hypochondriac). Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were taking up a row, Joly in the middle in case he had a panic attack (it was best to keep him secure between the two people he loved most when he was freaking out), Bossuet in the aisle seat (he often had to get up to pee), and Musichetta in the window seat (she had requested it and neither Joly nor Bossuet could deny her anything). Marius and Cosette were in a row with a rather disgusted-looking Combeferre (he wanted nothing to do with their shy, awkward handholding and shoulder pats). Bahorel, Feuilly, and Grantaire were in a row, griping about something or other. They made quite the trio, the outspoken brawler, the cranky fan maker, and the cynical artist. Jehan was in a row with Eponine and Courfeyrac, ignoring Courf whispering something (probably very R-rated) into Eponine's ear and furiously scribbling some poetry._

That was odd; the dream was more detailed than usual.

_Enjolras stood in the aisle, observing his friends – his family, really – with a smile. He wasn't quite sure why he wasn't in a seat, but the stewardess had ignored him, so he assumed it was okay. Grantaire suddenly began to howl with laughter, earning a glare from a woman across the aisle. Suddenly, Enjolras found the woman's face distorting._

Now it was a nightmare.

_Her tanned skin turned sickly white; her eyes turned pure red and tentacle-like appendages (Enjolras had been afraid of cephalopods since he was six) shot out of her mouth and wrapped around Grantaire's neck with a squelch. They tightened and tightened as the artist's face turned red and his eyes bugged. He clawed at his neck, looking frantically at Bahorel and Feuilly, who didn't seem to notice and just kept chatting and laughing._

LOOK UP! Enjolras wanted to scream. NOTICE HIM! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?! OH, GOD PLEASE HELP HIM! LOOK UP!

_Finally, Grantaire's panicked gaze caught Enjolras's. "Ap-pollo," he stammered. "Love… you… Apollo…" before his eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp. And then the plane began to plummet towards the sea._

XXX

Enjolras woke up, a wild scream ripping his throat raw. "GRANTAIRE!" he howled, clawing at his tangled sheets. His blonde curls were clammy with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and his heart was pounding.

"Apollo?" a familiar voice whispered. "You called?"

Enjolras's heart thundered harder, his vision blurring. _This can't be happening. He's dead and you're hallucinating his voice. Go back to sleep. He's never coming back._

"Apollo?" Suddenly, Grantaire was there. He was wearing what he had been wearing the day he died – a green sweater and a pair of black skinny jeans. Nothing special; a usual outfit. He cocked his head, his messy curls falling to the side. "Sorry I'm late. You've been suffering for the past couple weeks, but they wouldn't let me see you. But now they are letting me see you. Something about you needing closure." Grantaire took a step towards the shell-shocked Enjolras. "Well… say something will you?"

"R," Enjolras rasped. "Are you –? Is it really –?" He stopped himself. "Am I going crazy?"

"No," Grantaire chuckled ruefully. "I'm here, Apollo. Look." He held out a hand and tapped Enjolras's knee. "See, real as you."

Enjolras shuddered at Grantaire's touch… and threw himself at the drunkard, tears running down his face. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I should have died on that plane with you. God, why didn't I fly out with you? Please forgive me, Grantaire. Oh my God. Please, please forgive me._ Why_ didn't I fly out with the rest of you?! IloveyouImissyouI'mawreckohmyGod," Enjolras blabbered. "Please don't leave me."

Grantaire smoothed Enjolras's hair. "All is forgiven, Apollo. I won't leave… at least not until you don't need me. We've been with you this whole time, you know. It's killing us to see you this way."

Enjolras drew back from the embrace. "We?"

"We're all here, Apollo," Grantaire said, sweeping a hand. The air shimmered slightly, Enjolras's lost ones appearing.

Combeferre regarded his best friend with a sad smile and walked foreword, putting a hand on his shoulder. The other Amis followed, giving silent hugs and meaningful glances. Then they drifted off to stand beside Grantaire. The drunk cocked his head to the side again, his curls falling. "See, we're all here," he repeated.

"Why?" Enjolras asked, the words choking him. He sank to the ground. "I don't understand. You're all dead. Why couldn't I have died with you?" His shoulders shook, tears running down his face. "I don't want to live. I want to be with you."

"You have to live, Apollo," Grantaire said, leaning down next to Enjolras. "You're the only one left of us, and our legacy needs to live on. You have to carry it out – you're the only one who can change the world." Grantaire put a hand on Enjolras's cheek.

And then the words that no one ever thought Julien Enjolras would say passed his lips: "I don't want to change to world."

Grantaire looked shocked. "B-but 'Pollo – that's not… you can't –" he stammered. He took a deep breath, embracing the fallen leader. Their silent friends looked on. "Look: the rest of the Amis wanted me to come here to help you find closure. The rules are that if we go back to Earth that only one of us can talk, and they voted me. So I have to speak for all of us now, and we want you to change the world. Make everybody equal, you know? You can't just give up on your dream. We don't want you to."

"I don't care," Enjolras sobbed harshly. "I'd rather die."

"Look, we friends need your help the way we need to help you. You need to help us move on, and I need to help you move on. We can all help each other."

Enjolras looked up at the love of his life. "If there's anything I can do to help you, I will do it."

XXX

And he did help them. It took months, years. It was hard and bittersweet and often ended in frustrated sobs. But he finally did it. He reunited Marius and Cosette with a complicated séance, gave Combeferre closure with a simple hug and kiss on the forehead, and also reunited Feuilly with his beloved paints. Each of his friends slowly disappeared over the years, some more memorable than others. But all he knew was that once Courfeyrac and Eponine evaporated in a tearful embrace (they had been the hardest to unite), Grantaire was still there.

He had gotten used to the silences of his friends over the years, but Grantaire was always there. Always filling the space with his words and art and poetry. And now Enjolras was going to have to let him go.

He walked over to where the man (ghost?) stood. "I must let you go now."

Grantaire shook his head. "You won't have closure without me. Besides, my heaven is with you."

**Yay. This was remarkable difficult to write. Yay for writer's block. Like the subtle "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" references? **


	9. the golden age is before us

**'Ello, **_**mes amis**_**! I want to sincerely apologize for my lack of updates! It's as if the summer is sapping my muse! *sighs* Anyway, I would like to give some credit where it is due. This story was inspired by Tribal-Girl's picture on DeviantART, an adorable E/R ballet AU. Please look at it now: ** triba l-girl. devianta /art/i-just-really-want-an -e-r-ballet-au-38285565 5

**Just take out the spaces. So, this story was also partly inspired by Marine_is_Hope and her amazing story on AO3, "Illusions of Flight." It is hilarious and awesome. Best pairings ever. So…I'm going to make this a two-shot, by the way. It just got too long for me not to. Pairings coming up in parts one and two are: Enjolras/Grantaire, Bahorel/Feuilly, Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta, Cosette/Marius, Combeferre/Eponine, Jehan/Courfeyrac, and Azelma/Montparnasse. Just one big shipping mass. Like seriously. Okay, bye. **

At the Abaissés Arts Company, life was far from perfect. The giant cast fought among themselves almost every day, and the artist and strongman couldn't let a day go by without swinging a punch at each other. The two singers had serious daddy issues (Cosette's father being the most overprotective man in history, Eponine's father being in jail for five years). The ballerina was a cynical drunk who couldn't stand even a night without a beer in his hand. A hypochondriac carver floated around the group, simultaneously irritating and endearing everyone. Everyone seemed to have the maturity level of a twelve-year-old, and the moodiness of a petulant teenage. They were annoying and dramatic. Fistfights were a common occurrence, along with finding less than savory substances everywhere.

But.

The cast was a family. After every punch thrown, a kiss was sure to follow. After every soda sloshed in the face (Eponine to Courfeyrac; it had happened at least three times), laughter brought the young people back from the brink. After every all-nighter, a giant daytime sleepover ensued. They were brothers and sisters and lovers and cousins. They were the best of friends, as tight knit as if they had been together from birth.

There was Feuilly, the resident painter, who always seemed to be poor. He was tiny and skinny and perpetually had bags under his eyes. The young orphan was cranky and constantly frowning, as if he expected the world to dump all of its problems on him at any minute. He was constantly hiding his ginger hair under a newsboy cap that he worried at with his long, paint-stained fingers. Said fingers created artistic masterpieces. He was the one who had painted the giant sign advertising the company.

There was Bahorel, the strongman/bouncer, who was literally a mountain personified. He was giant and muscular and scary, with a face that flashed between an intimidating scowl and an intimidating grin. Everything about him was rather intimidating, actually. He had a head full of chestnut curls that were always tousled and fists that were always clenched, even when he was in good spirits. The boy had a love-hate relationship with Feuilly, and they were, in the words of Courfeyrac: "An old abusive married couple!"

Next was Jean Prouvaire, the poet. He spent his days in a dreamy daze of poetry and flowers, with a permanent look of wonder in his aqua eyes. He was a walking (read: prancing, or maybe traipsing) contradiction. He could beat you up while wearing floral-print skinny jeans; pick a lock with a knife concealed in his giant pink sweater. His ginger-blonde hair was always braided with wildflowers, and his lanky arms were covered with snatches of poetry. Everyone loved the boy, especially a one Courfeyrac.

Then there was Combeferre, a glass blower. The philosopher had started out a prosperous young lawyer (one of the youngest in the country), but had found his true passion when the Company (as its artists called it) rolled into town. He was tall and serious, with an intellect far greater than anyone his friends had ever met. He was levelheaded, a guide. Combeferre was calm and collected when it came to his art, and would often spend hours shut up in his studio, lost in a daze of bubbling molten glass and smooth curves.

There were Cosette and Eponine, the singers of the Company. They were as opposite as night and day, but the best of friends despite this. Eponine an olive-skinned beauty with long black hair in contrast to Cosette's gentle looks of creamy skin and golden hair. Cosette's warbling soprano and Eponine's rich alto blended to create wondrous harmonies that never ceased to astound anyone. Cosette was quiet and shy and demure, a walking lark. Eponine was loud and outgoing and brash, sometimes bordering on bawdy. The two somehow always managed to cause all sorts of trouble.

Next were Musichetta and Courfeyrac, the actor-actress duo. Musichetta had been brought up by a rich, conservative family and practically thrown off to a boarding school before first grade. She'd gotten into the arts in about fifth grade, and ever since then the girl couldn't stay away from the stage. She was beautiful and curvy, and had gotten more than a few love notes from admirers after her performances. The girl was in a dedicated relationship though – with two boys. Who also happened to be in a relationship with each other. She, Joly, and Bossuet were an odd couple (if you could even call them a couple) that worked perfectly together. It was taboo, and most people wrinkled their noses at her when they found out, but she could care less.

Courfeyrac was an actor as well. He was handsome, scruffy, and flirty – with the singing voice of an angel to match. The curly-haired boy always wore impeccable clothing. Girls all but threw themselves at him, but – like Musichetta – he paid his admirers no attention. He went pining after a one Jean Prouvaire, who thought him invisible. This caused the young actor to throw himself into his art even more.

Next came Bossuet, the photographer. He was the most unlucky man anyone in the Company had ever known, and constantly had bruises from bumbling falls. He had gone through five expensive cameras so far (he had dropped the first one in a toilet, the second had somehow gotten run over by a taxi, the third was stolen, the fourth was left in a restaurant, and the fifth had gotten dropped from a skyscraper; don't ask). Despite his terrible luck, he was an amazing photographer and a terribly happy person, despite his bruises and bald head and broken cameras. He completely was dedicated to Joly and Musichetta.

After this was Joly, a doctor/carver. He was currently attending a medical college, but in every spare moment that wasn't taken up by Bossuet and Musichetta, the young man was carving brilliant anatomical designs into wood, bone, and even ice if he could get his hands on it. Carving into bone – while it was one of his favorite mediums – was risky because of Joly's hypochondria. He tended to completely sterilize it before even bringing work. The medic was deathly afraid of germs and always diagnosed himself with diseases he didn't have.

Second to last was Marius Pontmercy, an adorable young dope fond of graffiti. He had gotten thrown into jail overnight for spray painting a beautiful lark on the side of a building which he'd thought abandoned. Cosette's overprotective father heard about this and "rescued" Marius from the cell and deposited him into the Company. Marius was eternally grateful for this, and, in addition, had fallen irrevocably for Cosette from the minute he saw her. The two were always making eyes at each other, and the rest of their friends just wished that they would get it together and go out already.

Last and – in his own opinion – _certainly_ least was Grantaire, the Company's only ballerina. He didn't have the body or mind of a ballet dancer, but for some reason he was still able to dance like a swan. He was tall and stocky with a stubbly face and dark eyes. The boy was cynical and wry, an alcoholic with a serious problem. He was self-deprecating and semi-depressed, but tried to mask it when he was with his friends. He was usually unhappy…until he met Apollo.

XXX

It was on a frigid winter Sunday when his Apollo came. Everyone in the Company was rehearsing in his or her own way for a new exhibition that would take place in a month's time. Feuilly was angrily splattering red paint over a canvas for some sort of bloody revolution-y picture, Bahorel was lifting a concrete block and arguing with the painter, Musichetta and Courfeyrac were rehearsing a scene from _Cinnamon Rainbow_, Cosette and Eponine were singing some Irish folk song...it was normal, comfortable life.

Grantaire watched as Azelma, Eponine's fifteen-year-old sister, rehearsed a scene with her reluctant boyfriend Montparnasse. Grantaire wasn't sure how he felt about the girl dating 'Parnasse. Though the Thénardiers were close knit, Azelma was closest to Grantaire, and she treated him like a big brother. And, as any big brother (regardless of how cynical and self-loathing he was), Grantaire was overprotective. Montparnasse was well-known as being a criminal/bad boy/many other nefarious things. _I mean c'mon_, Grantaire thought grumpily, _leather jackets and tattoos. That screams "criminal." _Plus, the boy was too old for Azelma. Nobody was quite sure how old he was, but he was obviously much older than the sophomore.Montparnasse was surly and rude to everyone else, but he actually seemed to care about Azelma. That was the only reason Grantaire didn't dash Mont's brains out, especially when the black-haired hooligan had started calling Grantaire "Papa 'Taire."

Eponine's Ridiculously Named Little Brothers 1 and 2 ran by. The little boys were seven and five, constantly underfoot but so adorable no one had the heart to chastise the brats. 'Ponine's parents had neglected the children, going so far as to dump them with a neighbor for some extra cash. They didn't actually have names, so the young men and women had allowed the kids to choose their own. The seven-year-old chose Lightning and the five-year-old chose Bunny. And yes, their birth certificates said this. Gavroche, the final Thénardier sibling, dashed after them, growling, "I'm gonna getcha, ya brats!" The twelve-year-old was their main wrangler, and even if they drove him crazy, he loved them.

"'It was awful!'" Montparnasse cried in an annoyed tone. For someone who claimed to hate the theatre as much as he did, the boy was a good actor. Grantaire had to give him that. "' Just like every other day! Same old boring job. Same old boring boss. Same old boring _life_. And then, on the way home, suddenly it hit to me—why come home to the same old boring wife and house and kids and dog when I could try something new?'"

Azelma gave him a reproachful look and recited her befuddled line. It was from some play called _Family 2.0_, Grantaire idly remembered. He thought about the play for a minute and then realized something: there was a make out scene coming up. As the two delivered the next lines, a rapid, speedy exchange, Grantaire felt himself getting more and more annoyed. Suddenly, he looked up, and they were, about to kiss. Grantaire leapt up and grabbed Azelma. "Well, well," he said loudly, ignoring Mont's infuriated glare. "Azelma, you're getting better and better!"

Azelma grinned and blushed. "Thanks, R. I've been working on this for a while. 'Nass and I thought we might do it for the showcase."

"NO!" Grantaire shouted. "Absolutely not. Azelma, there's a make out scene in it."

"So?" she asked innocently.

"Make. Out."

"Yeah?"

"Make out," Grantaire repeated. "Must I elaborate? _'In human sexuality, making out is a euphemism of the American origin dating back to at least 1949, and is used synonymously with the terms petting, kissing and necking…'_ And yes, before you ask, that is the Wikipedia definition. Or at least part of it. The rest is too inappropriate. Don't give me that look, Zee. No means no."

"You're not my mother," Azelma growled, not even bothering to ask why Grantaire had the Wikipedia definition of making out memorized.

"No, but I have legal custody for you, which kinda makes me your father. So no."

"But you're even younger than – " Azelma began.

"If you end that sentence with Montparnasse I swear to you I will make his skin into a coat and wear it," Grantaire said seriously.

Montparnasse, the hardened criminal, actually looked scared. He slowly edged away and Azelma bit back a snort. "Whatever, _Dad_," she said.

Grantaire barked a laugh and walked away, satisfied with his intimidation for the day. And then…the most glorious being to ever grace the Earth walked into the Company. He was wearing his semi-long blonde hair in a tiny ponytail and his blue eyes (sparkling, of course) were taking in the whole sight. He was carrying a duffel bag and had his pale pink ballet shoes thrown over his shoulder. He could have easily been the most handsome man Grantaire had ever seen. His strong jaw, his muscular body, his…everything. From that moment on, Grantaire was in love. He had never seen anyone like this…this…Apollo.

Slowly, boldly, he got up and walked over to the walking god.

The boy looked up at him with a small smile. "I'm Julien Enjolras…Mr. Valjean said that you needed another ballerina here?"

Grantaire nodded wanly, still in shock. He was performing a piece from _Giselle_ but needed a partner to do it. Valjean had said that he would do his best to find another ballerina. Grantaire had expected a skinny, spritely girl to be his partner – not the new love of his life. "Gr-Grantaire," he stammered, holding out his hand. "Nicolas Grantaire."

Enjolras shook his hand and smiled. "You're doing a piece from _Giselle_, yes? That's one of my favorite ballets. Shall we get right to it?"

Grantaire gave a mute nod to the danseur. He pointed his right foot out in a northwest position and bent his left foot slightly, dragging it up in the air. He held out a hand. "Do you permit it?" he asked. Enjolras smiled, confused, and gently took Grantaire's hand, pointing his right leg straight out behind him and standing _en pointe_ on his left leg. The two kept the position for longer than necessary. Grantaire was caught up in Enjolras's eyes and Enjolras appeared to be caught up as well._ I love you_, Grantaire thought, catching himself completely off guard. Loved him? Sure, the boy was the handsomest being R had ever seen, but love?

Eventually, a catcall from Bahorel broke their intense gaze. The strongman loped over with a wolfish grin on his face. "Who's this R, a secret boyfriend?"

Enjolras and Grantaire pulled apart with a blush. "No you asshole," Grantaire growled. "This is Enjolras, Julien Enjolras. He's gonna perform with me."

Bahorel stuck out a meaty paw. "Bahorel, nice to meetcha, pretty boy."

Feuilly came over with crossed arms. "'Rel, don't be a jerk to the poor boy," he admonished. "He just got here."

"You think I'm a jerk?" Bahorel growled.

"Frankly, yes," Feuilly answered calmly. "You're annoying and overbearing." He turned to Enjolras. "Don't deny it. I'm right, aren't I?"

Enjolras looked mildly shocked at the exchange. "Er…" he started.

"See, the kid agrees with me," Feuilly said triumphantly. Bahorel snarled and leapt at Feuilly. Soon the two were wrestling on the ground, grunting and shouting insults at each other, throwing punches and grappling. Grantaire chuckled.

"Sorry about those two," he said, leading Enjolras away from the mini-brawl. "Are you gonna be staying here?"

Enjolras nodded. "Unemployed ballerina isn't the best thing for a résumé," he said with a little chuckle. Grantaire led Enjolras around the rehearsal space, introducing him to everyone and trying not to have a heart attack. Everyone was friendly with Enjolras, and he seemed to like them all. He and Marius had a small, awkward disagreement about whether his pro-Bonapartism graffiti was okay, but other than that the day when by without a hiccup.

Neither of them mentioned their electric contact.


	10. love is not love that alters

**Bonjour, my miserable(s) friends! Thanks for all of the wonderful feedback this Fic has received! I'm thinking about continuing this 'verse on AO3. I' m pretty obsessed with that website now. Anywho, there's an OC in this chapter. (I know! The first OC I've used in this story!) She belongs to abbygoogle42, who had wanted me to use her for a while. So I finally did. Also, please don't kill me at the suckiness of this chapter. I've never tried to write a Spin the Bottle scene, and I suck at kiss scenes, so don't kill me. Please, I'm not ready to die at the barricade yet! :3**

**-Georgie**

**XXX**

The month leading up to the showcase began to pass with some interesting developments. Apparently, Eponine and Cosette, schemers that they were, had now decided to make sure everyone in the Company was dating someone. They called it Operation Get Them Together. So far they had succeeded with no one, but that didn't deter the two. One night, as everyone disappeared into Courfeyrac's apartment for a giant sleepover/study-session-where-no-studying-gets-don e/rehearsal-where-no-rehearsing-gets-done, Eponine caught Cosette's arm. "'Setta, I have a plan," the alto said.

"Oh, what's that?" Cosette asked, watching wistfully as Marius walked into the apartment, lost in his own little world.

"You and Marius are getting together…tonight," Eponine insisted. "You two are the first on Operation Get Them Together."

Cosette flushed a million shades of red. "I don't know, 'Ponine," she said longingly, "he probably doesn't even notice me."

Eponine rolled her eyes. _Honestly_, she thought, _this girl. _"Cosette Fauchelevant, are you joking? That boy has been in love with you since he came here."

"You're joking!" Cosette accused. "R-really?" The blonde blushed again and gave a tiny smile.

Eponine buried her face in her hands and made a muffled noise that could have been "idiots." She grabbed Cosette and all but dragged the girl into the apartment. "So," she said loudly, getting everyone's attention, "we're playing Spin the Bottle now."

Courfeyrac let out a whoop. "Sounds good to me!" the Irishman called out. "Everybody get in a circle!"

The Amis grumbled and there were more than a few mutters of "this is a stupid idea," but eventually they were in a circle(ish) shape with one of Grantaire's old wine bottles between them. Cosette leaned over to Eponine and whispered, "This plan is so smart! We can kill two birds with one stone this way!"

_Oh, 'Setta_, Eponine thought. She loved the girl dearly; she did, and would go as far as to say that Cosette was her best friend, but sometimes she was just so…thick. Like not realizing that Marius was head over heels for her, and had been for months. Or the fact that yes, Spin the Bottle _was_ a ploy to finish Operation Get Them Together all at once.

Azelma looked over at Gavroche. "'Ponine, are you sure this is a good idea? We've got kids here." She gestured to Gavroche's little girlfriend – a tomboy named Camille. She was a blonde, freckled spitfire a year older than Gav that all of the Amis were quite fond of. They were both in seventh grade, and this giant sleepover/not-studying/not-rehearsing session could be considered their "first date."

"I'm no kid," Camille grumbled with crossed arms.

"You've been thirteen for two weeks, 'Milla," Gavroche reminded her. "You're still kinda a kid."

Camille shrugged and grinned. She loved that Gavroche was friends with a bunch of adults and older teens, and loved even more that they seemed to like her. It made her feel grown-up. The girl was currently clad in blue jeans and a flannel shirt, which two people (Montparnasse, who was sort of scary, and Courfeyrac, who had immediately gotten admonished for flirting "with the kid") had already complemented. "I'll play it, but only if it's on the cheek," Camille decided.

Gavroche nodded. "Me too."

"Unless it's with each other," Eponine smirked.

Both kids blushed and mumbled something.

"Okay, so there's no kissing the brats," Courfeyrac concluded, "unless it's on the cheek. Got that. Now somebody spin that bottle." The actor was getting antsy, it seemed.

"Cosette'll have the first spin," Eponine said slyly, sliding the green bottle over to the blonde.

"Oh-okay," the girl stammered. She tentatively palmed the bottle and spun it. After spinning a few times, the neck pointed to Feuilly. Her eyes darted to Marius for the briefest second, and he seemed a little bit…defeated. Cosette smiled to herself and leaned forward before giving the painter a chaste kiss. She could have sworn that she heard a grumble from where Bahorel was sitting….

Next came Feuilly's turn. He rolled his eyes and spun the bottle…and it landed on Bahorel. The two stared at each other for a moment, the brawler growling angrily. He crossed his arms, and Feuilly repeated the gesture. "NO," they said at the exact same time.

"You have to!" Courf whined. "Besides, we all know you're into each other."

There was a long, strained silence after that.

"What?" Courf gave a shrug. "They're always beating up on each other. It's like…their form of love."

"Please. Shut. Up." That was from Feuilly. His face was nearly as red as his hair.

"Ah, what the hell," Bahorel grumbled, and grabbed the painter by the neck, smashing their faces together. Everyone watched as Feuilly went from awkward to horrified to compliant to horrified again to pulling away in shock, face tomato-red and breathing labored.

"Okay, there's one," Eponine whispered in Cosette's ear. She got a giggle in response.

Bahorel and Feuilly stared at each other awkwardly, still red-faced.

"Well, well," Bossuet chuckled from where he was sitting with his arm around Joly. "Never thought I'd be lucky enough to see that." As he finished this statement, a book from the shelf above him fell and hit the top of his head with a smack. "Ow," the photographer grumbled. "Never mind!"

Musichetta laughed and kissed the top of his head. "Bahorel, spin the bottle!" she crowed.

Bahorel looked away from Feuilly and spun the bottle with a bit more force than necessary. It landed on Marius, and the boy looked thoroughly frightened. Bahorel pressed his lips to Marius's for a millisecond and then pulled away, eyeing Feuilly. The painter looked almost…jealous. _Good_, Bahorel thought smugly. He threw an arm around the boy, who roughly shoved him off. Irritated, Bahorel cuffed him. Feuilly growled; Bahorel growled; they went outside to settle the matter in a fistfight.

Marius, still shocked after his kiss with Bahorel, spun the bottle and it landed on Cosette. Before anyone could say a word, the two had all but flown at each other. Everyone watched, bemused.

After a few more turns of the bottle in which Eponine and Combeferre shyly exchanged a kiss and somehow migrated next to each other, Jehan had perched himself in Courf's lap and was happily sucking his face off, and Bossuet had shared an extremely uncomfortable kiss with Enjolras, the bottle was spun by aforementioned ballerina.

It landed on Grantaire.

The two stared at each other for a long moment. Grantaire remembering that he was a worthless drunk, and Enjolras remembering their electric contact a few weeks ago. Finally, Enjolras shrugged and raised an eyebrow, smiling somewhat sheepishly.

"You really don't have to do this," Grantaire said uneasily.

Before he could stop himself, Enjolras blurted, "But I want to."

And then it was all over. The two closed the space between them in a millisecond, their lips pressed together and their hands flying and their faces so red they were almost purple. Their friends laughed and clapped, and Jehan managed to extract himself from Courf for a minute to give a very undignified squeak of happiness.

Camille leaned over to Gavroche. "Why is everyone here gay?" the blonde said very quietly.

Gavroche nearly choked on his soda. "Never thought of it that way," he managed between giggles. "Um…well, my sisters aren't. And neither are Marius and Cosette."

Camille nodded seriously. "It's okay, though," she said. "I don't mind. I actually really like them. They're nice."

Gavroche beamed. "I'm so glad," the twelve-year-old said.

Spin the Bottle kind of disintegrated after that. True to the name, the giant sleepover/study-session-where-no-studying-gets-don e/rehearsal-where-no-rehearsing-gets-done included no rehearsing and no studying. Everyone separated off with their significant other (or other_s_, depending on who you were) and the party mellowed out. Gavroche and Camille got out their sleeping bags at about midnight, both of them yawning. Lightning and Bunny had been put to bed hours before in the bathtub (no one ever claimed to be responsible adults) wrapped in blankets. At Eponine's order, everyone turned in early.

Courf and Jehan disappeared into his room, Marius and Cosette curled up together in a giant armchair, and Montparnasse and Azelma claimed the couch. Grantaire eyed them with disapproval as Montparnasse wrapped his arms around the girl protectively. He wasn't disapproving long, though. He had Enjolras.

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta lay in a tangle of blankets, Musichetta in the middle with her boyfriends on either side of her. Bahorel and Feuilly lay in an aggressive heap, and Combeferre had nodded off against the wall, his head lolling over Eponine's.

Gavroche and Camille snuggled down in their sleeping bags, and Camille felt herself just nodding off when she felt a poke in her side. "What?" she mumbled, noticing that everyone but Enjolras and Grantaire – Enjolras was playing with the ballerina's hair and whispering things to him – were asleep.

"Camille," Gavroche hissed.

"I said _what_," she grumbled sleepily.

"Okay," Gavroche said, before leaning over and pecking her on the lips, looking somewhat shocked, and then burying himself in his own sleeping bag.

Camille smiled, touched her lips, and then lay back down. She could get used to this indeed.


	11. the sins of father upon the children

_**Bonjour, my miserable(s) friends! I'm so sorry I haven't updated anything in a million years, but suddenly this idea popped up, and I just wrote it out. This chapter is named after the Cold War Kids' song "We used to Vacation." It's about an alcoholic father and how his life is quite messed up. GO LISTEN TO IT RIGHT NOW OR I WILL SEND MONTPARNASSE AFTER YOU. So, upcoming stories will have Combeferre/Enjolras, Grantaire/Eponine, and Bahorel/Feuilly. I need practice writing those pairings. Also, a new E/R Fic will be coming soon, and an OC/Jehan and OC/Feuilly. And Azelma/Feuilly. So what? That's like...six new chapters to expect! Love you all!**_

_**-Georgie**_

_**XXX**_

_My name is Lucy-June Enjolras, and I'm three years old. I am sitting on the floor, on my butterfly carpet, making a tower out of blocks. It's hard work, because it keeps falling over, but I'm determined…like Daddy. Daddy says that whenever _**his **_block tower falls over, he just looks at it calmly, instead of getting mad, and figures out the best way to put it back together again. That's what I'm doing. It topples over again, and I calmly collect my blocks. One of them is under the couch, and I fish it out. I can hear screaming in the other room – that's from Daddy – and shouting – that's from Papa – but I ignore it. My block tower is the biggest problem in my life right now, but I think I've got it figured out. See, if I stack my blocks one on top of the other, the tower will get too high; it doesn't have support. What it needs is a structure. So I place two blocks next to each other, and then two more on top of those, until I've used up all my blocks. The tower stays upright._

_Papa comes storming in, swaying on his feet. He sees my block tower and glares, as if I've done something horrible. His eyes are angry and dark, and he raises a hand and smashes my block tower, knocking blocks everywhere._

_Daddy rushes in, and sees me sitting there silently, surrounded by blocks. He looks at Papa and begins screaming anew. "You worthless drunk! You could have hurt her!" He picks me up and strokes my hair. _

"_I need a drink," Papa mutters and leaves the house. _

"_Daddy," I say. "Papa's block tower needs support." _

_As tears begin rushing down his face, I think I hear him say, "Yes it does…and I don't think I can give it to him."_

So here I am, fourteen years old. Most girls my age should be going out on dates, worrying about grades, and yelling at their parents. But I don't have time for dates. I guess I worry about my grades plenty, 'cause I spend most of my time in my room. A lot of homework gets done that way. And the yelling part…yeah, my parents do most of that yelling for me. But not at me, oh, no. Never at me. Always at each other.

See, my father – well, one of them – is an alcoholic. It's manageable, because he's never violent when he's drunk, and he doesn't go streaking or defacing public property or anything like that. It wouldn't even really be a problem if it wasn't for Daddy. Apparently, Papa has a very long history of alcoholism, leading back to high school when he and Daddy first met.

It just leads to what Daddy calls "senseless self-deprecation." Papa has always had really low self-esteem. He's had a history of depression and self-harm and substance abuse, because he lived a pretty horrible childhood. His father was violent and his mother ignored everything that wasn't obsessive housecleaning. His sister, my Aunt Aurélie, was his best friend when he a kid; they looked out for each other. But a brother and sister couldn't always protect each other, and one day Aunt Aurélie found solace in drugs. She OD'd three weeks later.

I think that's part of why Papa is so messed up. He feels guilty for not being there when Aunt Aurélie needed him the most. It wasn't his fault, though. Daddy has tried to tell Papa that a million and one times, but it doesn't do any good.

Papa got better for a while there in college. He and Daddy got together, and for a few years (from ages twenty-two to twenty-five, Daddy told me) he was happy and his drinking was cut back. He didn't cut himself, and he stayed away from drugs. Three whole years.

You know, sometimes I feel like this whole mess with Papa is my fault. Or at least a big part of it.

See, Daddy and Papa had been talking about children for months before they decided to adopt me. My birth mother had died, and my birth father was abusive, not that I remember any of it. I was only one when the system took me away from him.

Papa and Daddy adopted me soon after. Apparently I look quite a bit like both of them with my curly black hair (like Papa) and blue eyes (like Daddy). I've always considered them my real parents.

The reason that I think a lot of this is my fault is because when I turned two, Papa started again with the drugs and the self-harm and the excess drinking. It only started up again because I came along. Daddy says that he was scared that he would fail me or something, so he did the only think he could think of. Other than the nasty habits, that would be staying out of my life as much as possible.

Seriously. He still does it. I can show him a straight-A report card and he'll just stare at it for a minute before muttering, "Good job, Luce."

Sometimes I wonder…does he even love me?

I mean, it's a horrible thing to say, and I keep it to myself, but sometimes I just think it.

There's a knock at the door, and I move to open it. It's Daddy. "Lucy-June, I'd like to talk to you," he says. His tone is severe.

_I don't think I did anything wrong_, I think, putting my now-finished math homework in my backpack. "Yeah, Daddy?"

"Do you know why you were named Lucy-June?"

I wasn't expecting that question. "Um…no. Why?"

"Lucy was your Aunt Aurélie's middle name," he says, like it hurts. "Grantaire was insistent that we use it somehow. He didn't want to use Aurélie as your name, because I think it hurt too much. But Lucy was fine. You know, it's odd, but you look just like her," he muses. "The resemblance is uncanny, really."

I feel like someone is sitting on chest. "Oh. Well." I can't think of what else to say. Maybe that's why Papa has so much trouble talking to me. Because he sees his sister every time he looks at me.

"June was the month I proposed to him," Daddy says dreamily. "It was beautiful. We were sitting by the river on a picnic blanket – red and white checked – and his head was resting on my shoulder. I just couldn't help myself. I blurted 'Marry me.' And he looked up at me, so confused. His curls were all disheveled; they usually were. 'What?' he said, and he looked so hopeful. I said, 'Marry me. I don't have a ring, but I couldn't wait to ask you. Please, Grantaire, marry me.' And you know what he did? He leaned into my ear and whispered, 'Yes. I can't wait to spend my life with you, Apollo.' And _that night_, we –"

"Whoa, Daddy!" I cry, cutting him off. "I don't want to hear that part."

He laughs. "Sorry. I got caught up in the memory."

I smile, but then quickly frown. I figure I'll ask the question now. "Daddy, does Papa love me?"

He frowns. "More than anything. Why do you ask?"

"He doesn't like looking at me. He-he barely talks to me." All of those stupid fears rise to the surface, and I feel like I'm drowning. Especially when I see Papa standing in the doorway, looking as if someone just punched him in the gut. Suckered. Shocked.

"Luce, do you really think I don't love you?" he asks.

And that's it. I'm tired of bottling all of this up. "Yes," I whisper. "You barely look at me, you're drunk all the time, and you two are always fighting. You never ask me how _my_ life is. High school is a really important time in a kid's life, and I'm scared. Being a freshman is _hard_! You two don't know the names of my friends, or my favorite restaurant, or that Uncle Courf's son asked me out yesterday!"

There's a pause.

And then suddenly both of my fathers are hugging me and apologizing over and over. Papa says that he's going to stop drinking completely, and kill Uncle Courf's son while he's at it. Daddy is telling Papa and I that he loves us, and then proceeds to list off the names of all of my friends and my favorite restaurant.

So he does know.

And Papa says that tomorrow I'm skipping school and just he and I are going to spend the day together.

And you know what?

I think life just might get better from here.


	12. not with the eyes, but with the mind

**Bonjour, my miserable(s) friends! This chapter is for my AMAZING new friend thecoloursoftheworld. She's an awesome writer, and loves all of the same pairings that I do. So, this is like a sequel to **_**The Punk, The Hypochondriac, The Bald**_**. Yeah. Don't kill me. I know it's out of order. Feuilly/Bahorel is next. **_**Also please someone help me write Combeferre/Enjolras. I have the basic idea, but if you wanna co-lab on that chapter, please PM me oh god help.**_** Also, I'm reading the Brick right now, and I didn't realize that Bossuet is three years older than Jolllly. Sorrrrrrry! And also I have no idea how the legal system works, so I don't even know about the foster system oh god don't kill me.**

**Also, I do know that when someone has a panic attack, it's best not to constrict them in any way, but let's just say Joly likes it when he feels secure. Yay.**

**XXX**

"Marie, my teacher told me to write an essay about people who are important to me," Musichetta said to her foster mother. The eighth grade was proving to be more of a challenge than the thirteen-year-old had expected, and there were many personal essays; the teacher was rather fond of them as a writing exercise. Musichetta had always been a good writer, but never when it came to writing about herself. She was good with fiction, and could dash up a decent technical essay, but she was never quite in tune with personal writing. Still, she enjoyed the exercises.

"Is that so?" Marie said, just a bit distracted. She was sewing a new set of buttons on an old shirt, and it seemed to require most of her attention. One thing Musichetta liked about Marie: she was always sewing and designing awesome outfits.

"Yeah. I can't exactly write about my parents, 'cause they're not important to me," Musichetta explained. Marie looked up, something like consternation flitting across her features before she just nodded and threaded another needle. "I tried to write it about you on the bus, but the words just wouldn't come. Who do I write it about?"

Marie considered, flattered that Musichetta considered her an important person in her life. "How about those two boys who seem to live in my kitchen half the time?" she suggested.

Musichetta brightened. "Of course! Joly and Bossuet should be easy to write about! Thanks, Marie!" She kissed her foster mother on the cheek and scurried into her room to get started.

XXX

_Other than my foster mother, Marie, the most important people in my life are my two best friends. They both go to Abaissés High School, in grades nine and ten. Their names are Lucien Joly and __L'aigle de Meaux__, but they go by Joly (Jolllly) and Bossuet (Baldy Boy.) I'm not quite sure why we call Joly by his last name or why we nicknamed Bossuet after some philosopher, but the nicknames just stick. They call me 'Chetta, so I guess you could say that none of us go by our real names._

_ Joly is a walking contradiction – he's a hypochondriac who wants to become a doctor. Sometimes his hypochondrium is funny and endearing, but sometimes he has full-blown panic attacks because he thinks he's going to die. He can't breathe right and he starts rocking back and forth, so Bossuet just hugs him. It's really the only thing he can do. It's happened a few times now, and the last time, Bossuet had Joly in his arms and beckoned me over and I hugged both of them. I was scared, but honored that Bossuet thought I could help Joly._

_ Anyway, other than that, Jolllly is a perfect person. He's funny and sweet and the happiest person I've ever met. Sometimes, just to tick him off, we call him Jolly. He's one of the smartest people I know, and knows everything to do with medicine. It makes sense, though, because his dad's a doctor and his mom's a nurse. _

_ I love Joly. He's one of my favorite people in the world._

_ Then there's Bossuet. He's the unluckiest boy I know, always tripping and falling. Just yesterday the three of us were in the mall when he crashed into a pole and broke his nose. I'm not exactly sure what a pole was doing in the middle of the mall, but that's just one example. He's always losing his money or his bus pass, or getting splashed with dirty water by cars, or missing the bus. Despite all this, he's always in a good mood. Bossuet is cheerful, kind, and hilarious. _

_ He takes care of Joly and I; sometimes we call him Dad. He's sixteen years old, and I know that most sixteen-year-olds wouldn't put up with an eighth grader, but he treats me as if I'm his age. _

_ I love Bossuet. He's also one of my favorite people in the world._

_ Even though he's bald._

Musichetta laughed at that last line, knowing that it wasn't a proper way to end an essay. But what more could she say? She knew that Joly and Bossuet wanted to keep their relationship secret – at least for now – so she couldn't include that. And besides, what else _was_ there to say? She'd done the best she could. She shoved the essay in her backpack just as she heard a knock at the door.

"Musichetta!" Marie called.

"Coming!" Musichetta called back. She zipped up her backpack and walked into the living room, where Joly and Bossuet stood, chatting happily with Marie. "Hi, guys!" she said.

"'Chetta, your boyfriends here want to take you to the mall to retry yesterday," Marie teased.

Musichetta flushed, muttering, "They're not my boyfriends." She looked up at Bossuet, whose nose was still a little swollen and bandaged somewhat sloppily. "Is your nose okay?"

He gave a noncommittal shrug. "Eh, been better," he said with a wink.

"Can we go, Marie?" Musichetta asked.

At Marie's consent, the three teens tore out of the house and raced to the bus stop. On the way there, Bossuet tripped over air and landed hard on his side, grabbing Joly for balance and taking the boy down with him. Joly kicked his leg out wildly and caught Musichetta's ankle with his foot, and before the three knew it, Musichetta was flat on her butt, dazed and in pain, Bossuet was curled around himself and clutching his side, cursing under his breath and Joly was on his stomach, groaning.

"Bossuet – why?" Joly moaned. "Why do you have to trip over _air_?" He suddenly sat up, his pale cheeks flushing. "Are you okay? Did you break the skin? I think I have bandages and disinfectant somewhere in here…" He rifled around in his coat for a moment.

"I'm fine," Bossuet wheezed. He got up and kissed Joly on the cheek, wincing and placing a hand on his ribs. Joly opened his mouth and Bossuet put a finger over it. "No, I'm not bleeding internally, and my ribs aren't bruised _or_ broken _or _cracked. I'm fine." He scooped Musichetta up bridal style and got her back on her feet. The three continued on, limping a bit, but eventually made it to the bus stop and to the mall.

Things went well – Bossuet managed to walk _around_ the pole this time, Musichetta spent most of the trip riding on Joly's back because her butt hurt, and Joly didn't give himself an aneurysm about the mall food. They purchased ridiculous trinkets from a Hello Kitty-themed store, and almost played laser tag, but decided they were all too sore. Everything was fine…until Joly had another panic attack.

Later, Musichetta couldn't be sure what caused it.

But suddenly, by the bookstore, Joly had begun hyperventilating and shaking, murmuring something about salmonella. He fisted his hands in his hair and gritted his teeth, trying to swallow but clearly having trouble. Bossuet put an arm around Joly's shoulders and guided him to a little out of the way seating area, beckoning for Musichetta to follow. Seating Joly and himself in a chair, he took Joly in his lap, whispering reassuring things into his boyfriend's ear. He jerked a hand toward Musichetta, patting his knee.

Musichetta, confused, plopped into Bossuet's lap. Bossuet eased Joly toward Musichetta, and the copper-skinned girl, put an arm around him. She began to whisper reassurances to Joly as well, mostly nonsense, and she was sure that combined with Bossuet's words of comfort, all Joly could hear was a garble. Eventually, his shakes stopped and his breathing returned to normal. His head lolled, and he cuddled into Bossuet's shoulder, the sixteen-year-old resting his chin on his boyfriend's fawn hair. Joly wrapped his arms around Musichetta, much to her shock.

Bossuet wrapped his other arm around her, and wondered if there was no escape from the tangle of limbs. It was a bit odd, considering Joly was clinging to her like a monkey, and Bossuet wasn't objecting to this at all. In fact, he almost seemed to be encouraging it. But somehow…it felt good. Hesitantly, Musichetta rested her head on Bossuet's other shoulder, closing her eyes.

XXX

Musichetta awoke to her phone vibrating in her pocket and the lights of the mall going down. A security guard stood above the three sleepy teens, glaring down at them. She quickly realized that it had been hours, and that the phone call was most likely from a panicking Marie. In fact, she was right. After apologizing profusely and exchanging an awkward conversation with the pissy security guard (who had rather impressive sideburns), the three tore out of the mall. Joly was laughing, and took Musichetta's hand on one side and Bossuet's on the other.

"Hey, 'Chetta?" he said when they were sprawled across the bench at the bus stop.

"Yeah?" Musichetta asked.

"So, Bossuet and I've been talking," he said, and began to blush a bit. "And…uh….we're really glad that we're friends with you."

"Um…thanks. I mean, you two are my best friends, too," she said, a little confused.

"And…we both really like you."

"Thanks?"

"I….er…_we_…um…were…were…wondering if… you might want to…er…goddammitIcan'tdothis," Joly stuttered out.

"What?" Musichetta blinked slowly. She was confused.

"We were wondering if you wanna go out with us," Bossuet finished for his boyfriend, idly scratching his bandaged nose. "I get that it's weird, but a few weeks ago we realized that be both kinda have crushes on you, but still like each other. We'd like to give it a try if you're willing." He shrugged and smiled.

Musichetta was taken aback. _A three-person relationship?_ she thought. If she still lived with her parents, she knew that they would have a heart attack if they knew her best friends were gay. But the fact that they wanted to be in a relationship with her would send dear old Mom and Dad into an early grave, probably after some violent convulsions too. A dim smile flickered at the edge of her mouth. She liked Joly and Bossuet plenty, and had wondered before what kissing one of them would be like. She hadn't had her first kiss yet, and that would be nice. She also had to admit that sitting in Bossuet's lap with Joly's arms around her had felt natural. A little odd at first, but comforting and sweet.

"Okay," she said. "I guess we could give it a try. No one would get jealous, right?"

"Nope," Joly said proudly. "Bossuet and I already discussed that. We like each other – and you – too much to be jealous."

Bossuet smiled. "Thanks for giving this a try, 'Chetta. I get that it's weird. And that I'm too old for you."

"You're sixteen, not fifty," Musichetta teased. She turned thoughtful. "Would…would one of you kiss me?" she asked suddenly, blushing. "I've never actually been kissed."

"Gladly," Bossuet answered. "Who gets the honors?"

Musichetta, blushing fiercely, shrugged.

"How about both of us?" Joly suggested. With that, he leaned and pressed a kiss to Musichetta's lips. It was gentle and quick and sweet. She looked a little dizzy when it ended. "Huh. That's the first time I've ever kissed a girl. So it's a first kiss for me too," he laughed.

"I can't be outdone!" Bossuet laughed, grabbing Musichetta and sweeping her off her feet, kissing her with a loud smack. She looked even dizzier after that was finished. He then proceeded to half-make out with Joly, while 'Chetta sat there looking confused and blushing.

The bus pulled up, and the three, holding hands, made their way up, with Joly paying for Bossuet's ticket because he'd lost his bus pass again. They ended up with Musichetta in Joly's lap with her head on Bossuet's shoulder, and Joly and Bossuet's hands entwined on his thigh.

_I think this will work_, Musichetta thought. She'd have a lot more to add to her essay tonight.


	13. the fire of love with words

_**Bonjour, mes beaux et miserables amis!**_** First of all, I am so sorry that I've been so late with my updates. Summer has grabbed my muse and thrown her out the window. But I'll try to update more often. This is my main story right now.**

**One more bit: I know that everyone has very different headcanons (please tell me I'm using that in the right context!) of the Amis. That being said, here are my headcanons for Feuilly and Bahorel. I picture Feuilly as a scrawny, over-worked, and incredibly short young man with ginger hair, very pale skin, and bags underneath his eyes. I picture Bahorel as a frakkin' mountain of a boy with broad shoulders, big muscles, and chestnut curls. You know...nice contrast for a couple. Giant to "vertically challenged," skinny to buff, ginger to brunette, etc. **

**Yours, **

**-Georgie**

**XXX**

Feuilly was angry. No…that was an understatement. He was furious, enraged, _steaming_. He'd had to put up with a lot of crap in his childhood – being an orphan, wearing the same clothes for weeks at a time, being shorter than a second grader…but that had all stopped once he'd shown that he could hold his own in a brawl. He'd been booted out of a few – okay, at least half a dozen – foster homes for his incessant fights, but he never started them. Feuilly didn't particularly enjoy fighting; it was just something that had to be done if he ever wanted his Neanderthals of classmates to stop breathing down his neck.

Heck, he hadn't even wanted to fight someone since middle school. But…that had all changed one night. He'd been sitting in the back room of the Musain with his friends, resting his eyes a bit. He'd been tired from working a double shift at the restaurant where he worked, but glad for the extra money. Feuilly was just nodding off when he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder. He jerked and made a somewhat ungodly noise of surprise.

"Hey Fi, we're goin' home." It was the voice of Courfeyrac. "The meeting ran a little short tonight."

Feuilly rubbed his eyes and tugged at his finger (he was clad in his trademark fingerless gloves). "Home…yeah," he replied with a yawn. "Hey Courf, do you think I can stay at your apartment tonight?" He didn't want to mention that he'd been evicted for not paying his rent for the third month in a row. He'd been so desperately paying heating, water, and electricity bills (along with groceries and warmer clothing as the winter kicked in) that he'd forgotten the rent.

Courf seemed to get it; he often did. He gave a soft, sheepish grin. "I'd let you but – er…I have company tonight and it's sorta – I mean, you're welcome anytime, but…er…I guess I could reschedule- but I didn't really tell them…we've been looking forward to this for a while…"

Despite his disappointment, Feuilly couldn't help but raise his eyebrows and smirk at his friend. "Hmm… _company_, huh?" the overworked boy snickered. He took a look at Jehan; the long-haired poet was sticking around the Café after almost everyone else had left, nonchalantly eyeing their big map of France and playing with his cell phone, one finger twirling his tawny-auburn braid. He switched his gaze back to Courfeyrac with a knowing smile.

"Company," Courfeyrac mumbled.

"Your secret's safe with me…_womanizer_," Feuilly said with a wink. "Or should I even say that?"

"Shaddup," Courf grumbled with a small smile. He looked to Jehan and the poet immediately snapped his head over, as if he had felt the boy looking at him. Courf jerked his head toward Feuilly with an apologetic smile and a shrug. Jehan looked dismayed for a moment, then shrugged and looked to Feuilly, putting a finger to his lips with a wink. Feuilly nodded with a smile, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. Jehan and Courf locked eyes again and walked outside, their fingers loosely entwined.

Feuilly grinned. _I won't tell anyone_, he thought. _'Cause they already know. _Honestly, the two were terrible at keeping their relationship a secret. He felt a hand on his shoulder and for the second time that night, jumped about five feet (almost his entire height) in the air.

A voice barked out a short, sharp laugh behind him. "Sorry to scare you, Fi." It was Bahorel.

Feuilly felt his face go hot. "N-no problem," he stammered. "Just surprised me."

"Need a place to stay tonight, ginger?"

Feuilly audibly gulped. "Uhm…I mean, yeah. If it's not too much trouble."

"Don't mention it, ginger," Bahorel said. "Lemme guess…you got evicted."

Feuilly cursed Bahorel for his perceptiveness. As bawdy and irritating as the boy could be, he was also remarkably self-aware and noticed even the most miniscule details. "Yeah," he answered gruffly. "I did."

Bahorel chuckled. "You work yourself too hard, ginger." He shook his head. "Where's your junk?"

"In…in my car," Feuilly stammered. The two walked out to the car, Bahorel shoving his mountainous self in and Feuilly looking as if he should be sitting in a car seat…or at least on top of a couple of phonebooks. Feuilly's stuff was in the backseat, stuffed into three duffel bags and a ratty backpack. There was also a large houseplant and a squalling animal carrier.

"What the _hell_ is in there?" Bahorel laughed.

"Wolność," Feuilly answered wearily. "You can have pets at your apartment, right?" He looked pained for a moment. "If not, I can just leave him in the car, I guess." He twisted around and stuck his fingers through the bars of the pet carrier, waggling them. "Is that okay, Wolly?"

Bahorel roared with laughter. "Pets are fine, but what kinda name is Wall-nosck?"

"Wolność," Feuilly corrected. "It's Polish."

"And it means…?"

"…"

"Is it something I don't want to know?"

"…"

"Feuilly?"

"Liberty," the artist mumbled.

"What? You're mumbling."

"Liberty…"

"_What_?"

"Liberty."

"If you don't speak up I'm going to break open that pet carrier and feed whatever-the-hell-his-name-is to my neighbor's snake."

"IT MEANS LIBERTY, OKAY?!"

Five minutes of car-shaking laughter later, Bahorel had composed himself enough to realize that yes, Feuilly owned a guinea pig named Liberty, and yes, he was deadly serious about the name, and no, you ass, I didn't name him when I was drunk. (Which was actually a lie, but who needed to know that?)

Feuilly grumpily stuck the keys in the ignition and began to drive toward Bahorel's apartment with the brawler's (very unhelpful) instructions. When the two got there, Bahorel grabbed up all of Feuilly's bags _and_ the giant houseplant ("No, Bahorel, its name is not Audrey II. And yes, I get the pun, you twat.") Feuilly carried Wolność's carrier into the elevator, where the two boys rode up to the tenth floor and trundled into Bahorel's apartment.

The first thing Feuilly noticed about the dark room was how empty it was. It was like some obvious thing was missing. What "obvious thing" he couldn't think of; he was _way _too tired to think of anything at the moment. Bahorel unceremoniously dropped the artist's stuff in a heap with a cheeky grin.

"You can leave your pig in its cage, right?" Bahorel asked. "I don't fancy picking up animal shi –" At Feuilly's glare, he blinked. "Unh…animal…feces."

"Wolly can stay in his carrier," the artist said fondly. "He just needs some food and water." He went rifling through his duffel bag for a moment and produced some sort of animal food that involved a lot of seeds and a small pouch of water.

Bahorel was certainly focusing on the fact that people sold pouches of water (why? Why would you sella pouch of water? And who would _buy_ a pouch of water for that matter?) and not the way Feuilly's muscles stood out under his shirt. No, definitely not that. Because Bahorel was straight. Very straight.

Feuilly was done tending to Wolly by the time these thoughts went through Bahorel's head. "I have a day off tomorrow, so I think I'll just spend the day apartment hunting. I'm gonna go to sleep now if that's okay. Where's your couch?"

"Oh." _Oh. Everysinglecursewordeverknowntoman. _"It's…uh…in the trash heap. I got in a fight with this guy last week, and we were in my apartment…and – he was a big guy, like, huge – and I shoved him into the couch – it was really old anyway – and he broke the frame. I won the fight, though. So. Yeah."

_Well, that's what obvious thing was missing. _Feuilly sighed. "That's cool. I'll sleep on the floor. Go you have an extra blanket? I've got a pillow."

"Nonono. You're not sleeping on the floor. It's disgusting. I think the last time I vacuumed was, like, six months ago. Or more." Bahorel paused. "You can just sleep in my bed."

Feuilly blushed heavily. "Unh…no." A voice in his head was saying _Yes. Feuilly. Say. YES. _"Yes." _WHY DID I JUST SAY THAT?!_

And that's how the two ended up in Bahorel's surprisingly giant bed. And if Feuilly woke up in the morning with his head buried in the crook of Bahorel's neck and the behemoth's arms around him, he would keep it mum.

Well…the key word there is "would."

What Bahorel had forgotten to mention was that Courfeyrac was popping by in the morning to return a DVD, and Bahorel kept his DVDs in his room. And that Courf carried a camera with him all places. And that for very "platonic" reasons, Jehan had spent the night with him. And that Jehan was going to write a love poem for Feuilly and Bahorel and Courf was going to take photos and send them to all his friends.

So Feuilly was enraged.

But when he really thought about it, especially when he woke up to Bahorel's arms around him every morning, he supposed that he wasn't…too mad.


	14. a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes

**Okay, I know that I promised Combeferre/Enjolras. But I just can't seem to write it, y'know? I'm working on it. Also, Feuilly/Azelma is coming up. I promise. So, my lovely friend WeAllHaveAnEscape requested some Marius/Eponine without her dying. Well, I don't ship it, but I'm gonna do this. I WILL TRY. My mental Eponine for this Fic is cillabub's "Eponine" on DA. The link (take out the spaces): art/ Eponine-96655701. Just take out the spaces. Please don't kill me if this makes you want to eat your own eyeballs. **

**Yours,**

**-Georgie**

**XXX**

She was an interesting girl, that Eponine. Dirty and ugly and scrawny to the point of grotesqueness, but there was something about her that drew him in. It surely wasn't her gravelly voice, her torn clothing, or her bruised eyes. It couldn't have been her downturned mouth, sallow cheeks, or the sharp angles of her elbows. It couldn't have been her temperament, either. She was disagreeable at the best of times, stubborn and bitter. Of the rare times when she was kind, it could be mistaken for simpering.

All in all, she was just an unattractive, ill-tempered waif. Just another gamin.

But…she wasn't. She was also an intellectual, a guide, and a friend. She never left Marius's side, and often got him out of scrapes. She guided him around Paris, showing him things he had never seen before. The way the sun sparkled on the Seine in the summertime, the way the happy little gamin children romped about in the starlight, the way a mother cat stood down three large feral dogs to protect her kittens. None of these were things he could have ever noticed on his own.

Since becoming friends with Eponine, he had experienced things he could have never imagined. If he hadn't liberated himself from the dull socialites, Marius would have never experienced these things. He often thought back to his childhood of standing shyly behind his imperious grandfather, listening to the adults with their dry, tired humor and trying to shrink behind the damask curtains when the stuffy environment got to be too much for him. Eponine's childhood had not been like this. She had lived in a little inn – The Sergeant of Waterloo, perhaps? – with her family. Later on, the inn had failed and she'd been turned out on the streets. Those streets had made her the pitiful creature she was today.

"M'sieur Marius!" a ragged voice called.

_Speak of the devil_, Marius thought fondly. He turned his head. Running down the street, her skinny arms wrapped tight around herself, was Eponine. Her sunken eyes had swollen purple bags underneath them, her knobby knees were scraped and raw, and her sallow cheek had a large red mark that resembled a handprint on it.

Marius frowned. "Eponine, you look as if you haven't slept in ages, and – now hold on a minute…did someone slap you, 'Ponine?"

Eponine shrugged her bony shoulders. "Papa got angry with me. I ain't very helpful, even when I try to be. I took a fall when I was runnin' from him." She gestured to her bleeding knees. "I've had worse, M'sieur. No need to worry 'bout old 'Ponine." She gave a gap-toothed grin.

Marius put an arm around the gamin. "I'll never understand it, Eponine. How can a father hurt his children?" He shook his head as the two walked along the cobbled streets. "When I have children of my own, they will be treated with the utmost care. I won't let anything happen to them." He looked to his friend. "What about you, 'Ponine? What will happen when you have children?" Eponine looked perturbed, and Marius immediately felt guilty at the question. Why had he asked that? How would Eponine have children? If she did, they would be subject to the horrible life she lived. They would probably be beaten more harshly than she. And who would the father be? The thought of someone fathering Eponine's children distinctly bothered him.

"I ain't thought 'bout it much," Eponine said curtly. She looked slightly offended.

"I'm sorry," Marius apologized. "It was quite rude of me to ask that." He looked at her with her skirt – a hole over the knees – that was how he could see their scrapes, a dirty chemise, and a men's hat. "Eponine, are you cold? It's getting on into Autumn, _mon ami_."

Eponine tensed and jerked out from under Marius's arm. "I ain't cold!" she snapped. "And there ain't nothin' to apologize for! I don't need your pity, Monsieur."

Maris flushed. _I _do_ pity, you 'Ponine_, he thought. _How can you not be pitied? You are a wretched, starving, miserable creature. But you are so strong. You are ugly and ill-tempered, but you are a friend to me. You have shown me things I could never have imagined, and I can't repay you for that. You won't _let_ me repay you. Oh, 'Ponine. Don't you know I love you? You're so dear to me. I've tried to ward the feelings away; Grandfather would have my hide if he knew I wanted to court a gamin. And yet – I just…_

"Gone silent, have you?" Eponine challenged, interrupting his train of thought.

"Oh, 'Ponine," Marius said, voicing his thoughts. "There is so much to your character." He could see that wasn't the response that Eponine had expected. "I…I can't help it. I want to help you, Eponine. You can be prickly at the best of times, _cherie_, but I know that there's much more to you than that. I'm not trying to make you feel like a pitiable…ah…" He wasn't quite sure how to end his sentence. A pitiable what? A pitiable…child? No, she would be extremely offended if he called her a child. A pitiable…creature? Somehow, he felt as if she wouldn't take kindly to the idea of him calling her a creature. "A pitiable…girl," he finally decided. "Can you understand that, 'Ponine? I know you don't want my help, but I want to help you. Not because I want to make you feel like an invalid, or because I want to feel good about myself, but because you are my friend. And I respect you. I want to help you because of _that_."

Eponine looked up at him with big eyes. "You…respect me?"

"Of course I do."

"You…can't. No'n respects me. I ain't someone to _be_ respected. I'm dumb as a post, ugly as a hag, and I've got the temperament to match! Why'd you respect me?" Eponine wondered. Marius could see that she wasn't fishing for compliments as many girls did; she honestly thought this.

Marius took a deep breath. He couldn't hold his feelings back anymore. He just couldn't. With that, he grabbed Eponine by the arms and crashed his lips down over hers. It was not a passionate kiss, or even a tender one. It was confused and angry and sad. Both of their eyes stayed open.

Eventually, Marius had to draw back when an old man shouted at them. "Boy! You and your whore had better get off the streets this instant!" The old man's face was screwed up with disgust, and he shook his head.

Eponine wilted under the old man's glare, and Marius drew her close. He steered her toward the old man, striding determinedly and glaring right back. "Monsieur, don't you dare refer to my dear friend Eponine in that way," he said. "She is not a prostitute as you seem to think. She is a respectable, strong young woman. And I love her. It would do you well to never insult her again."

The old man's mouth gaped. "You love this…this…_laide vieille chose_?" He shook his head. "But why, boy? You're a handsome young lad. You could have your pick of the girls, and you choose this sallow creature?"

And that was how Marius's fist ended up in a feeble (but judgmental) old man's eye, Eponine ended up in his arms, and the two ended up hiding in an alley way as a group of policemen ran by. Eponine was still clutched to his chest. Marius was very acutely aware that coupled with the fact that he had just punched an old man, _Eponine was clutched to his chest and he had just kissed her in the middle of the street_, he was probably going to have a nervous breakdown.

Finally, Eponine looked up at him. "Why did you do that, M'sieur Marius?"

"Which thing?" Marius gasped, trying to regain some control over his breathing. "I've just done many things."

"Everything!" Eponine cried. "You…you just kissed me! And you ain't ashamed of it! You defended me against that ol' man, and – and…said you loved me!"

"I meant everything," Marius explained.

Eponine looked at him. Just looked at him. Her dark, shadowed eyes full of wonder. It was as if something clicked in her brain them. "You…love me."

"Yes."

"And…you want to…be with me."

"Yes."

"Monsieur Marius, I love you too."

Marius never thought that hearing those words – especially coming from a voice that sounded as if its owner had gargled stones – would affect him so. So he told a very small lie. "Eponine, my grandfather would very much like for me to be married. But, the action that I just took is – at least to him – completely inappropriate of an unmarried couple. I don't want to dishonor my grandfather, and…"

"Yes," Eponine breathed. "Monsieur, the answer is yes."

And if you ever questioned the fact that Marius had just proposed to an ugly gamin in a dirty alley after punching an old man, well, he would just smile and shrug, saying, "I loved her."

**You know what? That was actually kind of fun to write. This is supposed to be set before he meets Cosette, by the by. Here's your question for the day: does anyone here ship Marius/Cosette/Eponine? Like, as an OT3? Answers in the reviews, please!**


	15. eternity was in our lips and eyes

**Okay, I apologize for this…whatever this is. I just suddenly had the idea. Carine belongs to my lovely reviewer Bee.**

**XXX**

"Maman! Maman!" Daisi came running into the room, her eyes bright with some unreadable emotion. It looked like fear and excitement mixed together, maybe even a bit of hope. "Maman, I heard them!" Daisi cried.

"Heard who, _cherie_?" Musichetta asked, taking the little girl in her arms. She ran a hand through Daisi's tumbling orange-blonde hair that looked exactly like Joly's. The child was all she had left of her dear Joly, and she would fight to keep Daisi with her. Everything about the little girl looked exactly like her beloved hypochondriac. From her constantly red nose to her hair to her name – Joly's favorite flower.

"I was playing with Trystan like you told me to, Maman. We were pretending to be kittens, when we heard this voice! It was a nice voice. Deep and kind. It sounded like he was about to laugh whenever he spoke," Daisi said. Her brother Trystan came toddling into the room after her.

Trystan was Daisi's twin, and looked quite a bit like Joly as well. He had pale skin and a head full of orange-blonde curls. Even with his physical appearance, he was Bossuet's child through and through. The little boy had terrible luck, and was often falling and hurting himself. Still though, he took his bad luck in stride and was jovial; an old soul. In a way, Musichetta was glad that Trystan looked like Joly. The fact she loved a man of African descent was absolutely unacceptable in most social circles, and if her dear children had been colored like Bossuet…Musichetta didn't even want to think of the hateful comments they would get.

"Maman, Daisi is telling the truth!" Trystan insisted, drawing Musichetta from her thoughts. He put a hand on his sister's shoulder.

That gave Musichetta some pause. Her first thought was: _How can a pair of five-year-old children be so mature? _Then her eyes darted to Trystan's hand on Daisi's shoulder. _Bossuet used to put his hand on Joly's shoulder exactly like that when he was trying to convince me of Joly's truthfulness. _

"My God," she whispered.

"Maman!" Trystan said insistently. "Please listen! Daisi, keep telling!"

Daisi obeyed her brother, wiping her red nose on her sleeve before continuing. "The kind, laughing voice said, 'Hello, my children.' And then another voice came, too. It was sweet and gentle, but sounded a bit nervous. He said, 'Your name is Daisi, is it not?' I know you told me not to talk to strangers, Maman, but the voices were so nice! So I said, 'Yes, my name is Daisi. This is Trystan. Who are you?' The voices told us their names were Joly and Lesgles, and that they were our papas. Is that true, Maman?"

"Oh…my God," Musichetta murmured. She felt as if her world had been shattered. Her mind was reeling yet blank at the same time. _Joly and Bossuet came to their children. _Our_ children_, she thought. It was only Trystan's concerned look and Daisi's confused one that brought her back from her short, earth-shattering reverie. "Ah…I'm sorry, _mes chers enfants_," she apologized. She took her children in her arms and hugged them hard. "I love both of you very much, you know that?"

"_Je t'aime aussi, _Maman," Daisi said, hugging her mother's arm.

"We love you very much, too, Maman," Trystan said seriously. "Please don't forget that."

"I will never forget that, my darling boy," Musichetta whispered, tears running down her cheeks. She laid a kiss on Trystan's hair and gave Daisi's cheek an affectionate pat. "Go play, please, children. I have a lot to think about." Daisi scurried off of Musichetta's lap and took Trystan's hand, pulling him away to their room for some game or another.

_Joly, Bossuet, thank you for presenting yourself to your children_, she thought to no one in particular, hoping that somehow her dear loves could hear her. _When I first found out I was carrying your children, I was terrified and angry. The loves of my life had just died, and I was going to be saddled with two squalling brats for the rest of my life. But then they were born, and I realized just how wrong I had been. Trystan and Daisi are the lights of my life. Those two are ever so perspective. They're well-behaved and polite; you would adore them, _mes chers_. The twins are wonderful children, really. They will live good lives. It seems as if I can only do things in pairs, doesn't it? Two loves, two children…two holes ripped in my heart._

"Musichetta, my darling, please don't cry. We hate to see you this way."

Musichetta's head jerked up. She had gotten so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't heard the appearance of…Joly and Bossuet. In front of her. "Oh, my God," the young woman whispered.

Bossuet came forward, the sun shining off of his dark skin the way Musichetta remembered, making it glisten. He ran a finger over Musichetta's cheek. "Please don't cry, my sweet."

"Oh, my God," Musichetta whispered again. "Bossuet?"

Joly walked up next to Bossuet, taking one of Musichetta's hands and leading her over to her small couch. He gave her a gentle smile and set down next to her. Bossuet took her other hand, smiling across Musichetta to Joly. It was just as they had done when the two were alive those few years ago.

"We've come to thank you, darling," Joly said. "For raising our children so lovingly. We're both ever so sorry that we couldn't be around in their lives." He placed a gentle kiss on her lips.

"You…both of you…are dead," Musichetta stammered.

"Yes, we are," Bossuet said regretfully. "'Chetta, the real reason we've come is because…we were presented with the option of taking you and the children away to be with us. We would all be together again."

"Yes!" Musichetta shouted. "Yes, please! I want nothing more than to be with the both of you and the children! Please!"

"But," Joly said, letting go of her hand to place his hand on her cheek, "you won't be able to come back, 'Chetta. The children will never grow up. You will feel pain, and so will the children, but only for a few moments, my darling." He looked around the room – airy and comfortable. "You won't see this room again."

"Are you telling me that we will die?" Musichetta asked.

"Yes," Bossuet answered.

"So be it," Musichetta answered immediately.

"Are you sure?" Joly fretted.

"Yes." Musichetta took Joly's hands in her own and smiled softly at him. "Please, Joly. I want nothing but to be together again. In these five years, I have lived half-alive. The children were the only things keeping me on this Earth. And now, we can all be together again."

"So be it," Bossuet repeated. "Please call them in, darling."

Musichetta nodded. "Trystan, Daisi, please come in here!" she called. The children wandered into the room.

"Maman?" Daisi questioned. "Are these our papas?"

Musichetta nodded. "Yes, my girl. They are. Come." She picked Daisi up and put her in Joly's lap. "This is Joly. He is a silly man, loving and wonderful and always diagnosing himself with diseases he doesn't have. He is nervous and sweet. You take after him."

"_Salut_, Monsieur Papa," Daisi said shyly. The little girl was always outgoing, but the presence of her father seemed to subdue her a bit.

"Why hello, Daisi," Joly said, his eyes full of wonder. "You are my daughter," he said to her. "And I love you very much." He wrapped one arm around the girl, who snuggled into him.

"I love you too, Monsieur Papa," Daisi answered.

Musichetta watched the scene with tears in her eyes as she picked Trystan up and set him in Bossuet's lap. "Trystan, this is Bossuet, or Lesgles. He is an unlucky man, always falling over and hurting himself, much like you. He is kind, and always laughs at everything. He is, like Joly, utterly wonderful. You take after him."

Trystan shook Bossuet's hand firmly. "Nice to meet you, Papa," he said maturely.

Bossuet wrapped one arm around Trystan like Joly had done. With his other hand, he took Musichetta's. Joly did the same. The family of five sat like that for some time, Daisi dozing off against Joly's chest and Trystan lost in own thoughts. Eventually, Musichetta shared a soft smile with her loves. "I am ready," she confirmed.

"We love you, darling," Bossuet said. "We have to go now, but you and our children with us in a matter of moments." He kissed Trystan's head and passed the boy off to Musichetta. He kissed 'Chetta softly, disappearing into the air. Joly smiled, kissed Musichetta, and passed his sleeping daughter off to her before disappearing too.

Musichetta woke Daisi and shook Trystan out of his thoughts. "My children, we're going to leave Paris now. We're going to go live with your papas and their friends up in Heaven. Would you like that?"

Daisi nodded. "_Oui_, Maman. Will you happy, then? You're always sad. Please say that you'll finally be happy."

"Infinitely, my darling."

"Well, then," Trystan said. "Maman, we'll go with you, and we will _all_ be very happy."

As the words left Trystan's mouth, Musichetta felt a brief flash of pain. She felt Daisi and Trystan give a little jerk in her arms, and knew they felt it too. Her eyes began to droop closed, and her grip on the twins slackened. A small smile crossed her face before her eyes reopened.

_And they were. In a large cloud-white castle, where all of her friends. And the ones she loved. _

XXX

It was Carine, the maid, who found them. She was a young thing; a few months shy of fourteen, who spent the days quietly cleaning Madame 'Chetta's house, and hiding behind her long brown hair. She walked into the sitting room and saw Madame 'Chetta with her two children – Daisi and Trystan; she did like those two ever so much – loosely clutched to her bosom. But…she was on the floor. And…there was a thin red line across her throat. And the children's throats…but they were smiling. Carine fell to her knees, screaming.


	16. in black ink may my love shine bright

**Guys, guys! Look! I finally got my Combeferre/Enjolras chapter out! :3 See, told you I'd do it. But I didn't do it alone. This chapter was written with the lovely, talented, and utterly helpful CelestialFlower. Please do check her out! I couldn't have done this without her! And also…WE BROKE 100 REVIEWS! AzureOtter, who I would easily consider one of my best friends, was the 100****th**** (and 101****st****) reviewer! Check out her utterly amazing story "Fantine's Trials." It's top! **

**XXX**

They knew what they were doing was wrong; ungodly even, but did that stop them? No. They were barely even sure what it _was_ they were doing; they had long ago left the beaten track and were now wandering in the wilderness of the immoral. However, they knew one thing for certain: their secret must never be discovered.  
That was often the worst part of it: the fear and the paranoia. At meetings, they would never hold eye contact for more than two seconds and any touch, a hand on a shoulder or fingers brushing against the other's hand left the two men blushing, trying not to show the spark of attraction that flickered at the slight contact.  
It was only later, when they were alone that they felt they could breathe in each other's presence again. It was only then that they fully relaxed and allowed themselves the small touches and smiles that defined their feelings for the other.

XXX

One day Enjolras and Combeferre were studying in their apartment when a knock on the door roused them. Enjolras moved first, putting down the quill he was using to write an essay due the following Monday and rising from the chair behind his desk. He strode over to the door and opened it to a post carrier holding a letter addressed to him in his hands. He proffered it to Enjolras, who took it, thanked him, paid the two franc delivery fee and closed the door on his retreating form. He glanced at it and his eyes widened as he found he recognized the handwriting on the front. He turned it over to the return address and what he found there confirmed his suspicions. Apparently his parents had decided there was a need to correspond with their son. He looked up and met Combeferre's eyes, the latter clearly curious, however he returned to his book when Enjolras shook his head slightly. He wanted to read the letter first before telling Combeferre. He walked back to sit again at his desk where he found his letter opener buried beneath stack of paper and sliced the letter open, quickly reading its contents, a frown appearing as he did so. When he had finished, he sat frozen for a minute or so and then violently crushed the letter in his fist and flung it across the room before storming into his bedroom and slamming the door.  
Upon hearing this, Combeferre looked up from his book again at Enjolras' closed door and then his eyes found the crumpled letter lying close to the armchair he was sitting in. He got up, putting his book down, and walked over to pick it up. He smoothed it out as best he could and, feeling a small pang at violating Enjolras' privacy, began to read:  
_ My Dear Son,__  
__ Your father and I have been missing you terribly. How is life treating you in the great capital? From the school reports I receive I can see you are applying yourself to studies. We commend you for this. However the purpose of this letter is to address an entirely different aspect of your life.__  
__We would like you to come home Julien, for, to put it bluntly, we believe it is time for you to be married. Do you remember Rosaline Morel? She is a member to our church and has become an absolutely delightful girl. She is very involved in church matters; very recently, she spearheaded the campaign to educate members of our parish on homosexuals and the danger they pose to our society.__  
__ We have talked to her about you often and she would very much like to see you again. (I know how a couple of years can feel like decades when you are young.) I know you are living the life of sauntering Parisians but you know I shan't give up on the hope that you will marry a nice Christian girl.__  
__ Love,_

_ - Marie Enjolras.__  
_ Combeferre's eyebrows had raised steadily higher as he read and he found find them almost disappearing in his hairline. His hand was shaking in anger but he remained calm as always, laying the letter on his desk and walking over to knock on Enjolras' door.  
"Julien?" he asked softly through the door. "May I come in?"  
"No," came the muffled reply. Combeferre sighed, took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes in frustration. As much as he loved him, Enjolras had a tendency to block people out and that could be very taxing to him.  
"Please," he tried again, "we should talk about this."  
"Fine."  
Combeferre cautiously opened the door to find Enjolras sitting on his bed, staring blankly into space. Combeferre sat down next to him and put an arm around his lover who leaned into his touch and placed his head on his shoulder.  
"What am I going to do?" he asked in a voice so quiet that Combeferre could only just hear it.  
"I don't know."  
"Sometimes I think we should give up," Enjolras muttered in such a resigned tone as Combeferre had never heard before. "All of this, it's…it's not right. No one would ever accept it, least of all my parents."  
"No." Combeferre's tone was hard; Enjolras' resignation seemed to make Combeferre the more resolute. He abruptly stood up and began pacing in front of the bed.  
"I know that the religion that has been instilled in you from a young age states that homosexuality is an abomination, but I have read the Bible, and it also says that God loves everyone equally. _Equally_," he reiterated. "Enjolras, we are fighting for equality for the people, why, for God's sake can't we fight for ourselves? I love you and that's not going to change, whether or not people can accept us for who we are."  
Enjolras also stood up and stepped up to his agitated lover.  
"I love you, too," he said, his voice full of conviction for the first time that evening. Combeferre couldn't help smiling at him just as he couldn't help pulling his lover down for a kiss. When they stepped back Enjolras had a smile on his face as well.  
"So how do we change people's minds?"  
At the meeting the next day, Enjolras had just given a speech and was now sat attempting to write a letter to another revolutionary group asking for support at a protest Les Amis were organizing. However, his thoughts kept wandering to the discussion he'd had with Combeferre the previous evening and it reminded him of the first time they had admitted their feelings towards the other.  
_It had been just over two years since they had met on the first day of university. They had shared a room in the student housing but when they were entering their third year; they realized their studies had come to a point where they couldn't afford to be distracted by the noise of the other students and they decided to move into an apartment. There was never any question of their continuing to live together; the two had become close friends through their shared devotion to their studies and their liberalist beliefs. However, while Enjolras possessed that fiery disposition that made him believe fervently and passionately, Combeferre was calmer and provided an excellent counterpoint to Enjolras and grounded him. For this reason, they could have discussions that lasted hours yet never got heated.__  
__ One night, two weeks after they had moved in, Enjolras couldn't sleep. He felt like there was something on the edges of his subconscious mind that he couldn't ignore. Then he sat bolt upright, having suddenly figured out what it was. He felt in the darkness to his bedside table for the candle and matches he kept there and after lighting the candle he hurried out of bed and into Combeferre's room, roughly shaking him awake.__  
__ "What…what is it?" he mumbled groggily, reaching for his glasses. "Enjolras?"__  
__ Enjolras bit his lip, taking a second to control the inexplicable nervousness he felt.__  
__"I love you" he finally said.__  
__ "What?" Combeferre was certainly awake then. "You love me?" he repeated incredulously.__  
__ Enjolras blushed and shifted from foot to foot. "Yes," he replied much less certainly than before. __  
__"Do – do you not love me also?"_

_ Combeferre's face had broken into a smile then. "Of course I do, you absolute sod," he said, drawing Enjolras into a hug._

XXX

"Enjolras?" Courfeyrac's voice broke Enjolras out of his reverie. "Is everything well? You haven't moved in over ten minutes."  
Enjolras hesitated. "Yes, everything is fine, _mon ami_," he said finally. "Thank you. I was lost in thought…figuring out how to compose my letter to be the fullest –"

"I see, I see," Courfeyrac interrupted. "Well, I'm glad you are well. Now, I believe that lovely young lady over there requires a bit of company." He sauntered over to a young grisette sitting in the front room of the Musain, easily charming her.

Enjolras listened to his friend's suave words and sighed, burying his head in his hands. Why could he not be like Courfeyrac? Why could he not want to charm young women; have a mistress? No…he had tried, though. As a young man, still in his secondary education, he had courted a young girl by the name of Sylvianne. He was not, as his friends often joked, a marble statue. He was a young man. And young men – around the age he had courted Sylvianne – wanted to do…certain things…with women. But he had realized very quickly that he had no such desire to such things with Sylvianne. He was much more attracted to his studious friend than he was to any busty grisette.

"Enjolras?" It was Jean Prouvaire. The gentle poet took a seat next to him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"_Oui_? What can I do for you, Jean?" Enjolras asked with a tired smile. Even though he had his own troubles, it was still in his duties as a chief and a friend to listen to his friends' troubles and help them.

"_Ami_, I don't think it is a matter of what you can do for me," Jean said quietly. "It is what I can do for you." He kept his hand on Enjolras's shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. "I know that you are having "relations" with Combeferre," he said lowly.

Enjolras turned almost purple. "I – I'm –I do not…unh…" He was choking on his own tongue. How could Prouvaire know? They had hidden it so well! They never gave anything away! They had –

"Calm yourself," Jean said with a slow smile. "I don't fault you for it, my friend. Love is love, and Combeferre is a good man. Besides," he added with a wink, "when was the last time you saw our Feuilly with a mistress? Or myself for that matter?"

"Thank you," Enjolras said quietly. "I mean it, Jean – Jehan. You are understanding." He looked to Feuilly, who was sitting at a table with Joly and Bossuet, energetically debating something. Prouvaire looked over also, catching the fan maker's eye. Feuilly smiled at him, and Jean returned it quickly, before both of them looked away. "You and Feuilly?"

"_Oui_, Feuilly and I," Jean returned with yet another smile. It seemed that the young man never tired of smiling. "But…this isn't about me. Enjolras, you seem troubled. You've seemed troubled for quite a while now. Can I ask what's wrong?"

"My parents," Enjolras sighed, "wish me to marry. The young woman they've selected is violently opposed to homosexuals such as…us." It felt odd to say. "Anyway, they've just sent me another letter all but demanding I take a visit and meet her."

Jean tapped his chin with his long fingers. "A conflict," he murmured. "A conflict indeed. Do you defy your parent's wishes and horrify half of Paris by pursuing your relationship with 'Ferre? Do you politely decline the girl, keeping your relationship a secret, and then face the problem again when your parents have selected a new bride? Do you marry her and turn your relationship with Combeferre into an affair, both of you scorned and slandered if anyone ever finds out – which is bound to happen? Do you marry her and forget about 'Ferre, hurting him and yourself in the process? Do you - ?"

"Prouvaire," Enjolras interrupted the poet, his tone steely. "Please."

"I apologize, Enjolras," Jean grinned. "Other people's problems do intrigue me so." Only his ironic grin reassured Enjolras. "Such a problem. I don't know how to help you, other than writing a morose poem."

Enjolras smiled. "Leave me, Jean. Thank you for your words." He turned back to his paper, scribbling down a few more sentences. _What am I to do?_

XXX

"Well, my boy, we'll leave you and Rosaline alone for a few minutes. Stay civil!"said Monsieur Enjolras with a wink. With that, he and the Madame exited the room, leaving Enjolras alone in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, opposite Rosaline, who sat on the red chaise lounge, picking at a seam on her dress.

"Hello, Rosaline," Enjolras said evenly. He had no idea what he was doing. Would he be polite yet cold and distant with the girl? Charming? Chaste? Flirtatious? "How are you today?" He tried a warm smile; it came across strained.

"Please do not be fake with me, Julien," Rosaline said, looking straight into his eyes. "I know you do not want to marry me." There was a look of insurmountable sadness in her eyes. "I do not want to marry you either, but we are both being forced into this."

"You mean…you don't want to marry me?" Enjolras repeated, not without hope. Maybe this would turn out better than he had imagined.

"No!" Rosaline cried, throwing her hands in the air. "I cannot just love someone I haven't seen in years! I barely even know you, Monsieur! For all I know, you could be one of those raging, evil homosexuals that God hates so much!" Well, not better than he had imagined. More like much worse.

Enjolras turned white. If he reacted like this every time someone questioned his sexuality, all of France would know. He stayed silent; though he was sure his eyes gave him away.

"Oh, no," Rosaline whispered. "You _are_ one, aren't you?"

Enjolras turned red. _Turning white one minute, turning red the next! Will I be blue soon? I'll be every color sacred to France! _ For some reason, Enjolras's panicked mind found this thought funny, and he let out a slightly hysterical giggle.

Rosaline crossed herself, and then buried her head in her hands. "Leave me!" she all but sobbed. "You…you abomination!"

Enjolras looked around the room. He had always disliked this room a child, he remembered. The furniture was too perfect, the curtains too heavy, the air too stifling. He had felt trapped in this room then, and he felt that way now. "Now, Rosaline," he tried to reason.

"No!" he shrieked. "You disgusting creature! Go back to your loathsome lover!"

Enjolras shot up from the stiff-backed chair and grabbed Rosaline by the wrists, yanking her off of the chaise longue. "You may insult me all you like, you bigoted _chienne_," he hissed, "but you will never insult my "loathsome lover." Étienne Combeferre is a fine, upstanding figure. He is wildly intelligent and wholly dedicated to the _Republique_. I couldn't ask for more in a man. He is my best friend, and, yes, I love him. It would do you well to never speak his name again unless you sing his praises, Mademoiselle. I do not wish to marry you, and I do not understand how anyone could. Now, leave my sight." His eyes flashed menacingly, and the words were less spoken and more snarled. Rosaline stood there, quaking, her wrists still in Enjolras's harsh grip. "I said: _leave_," he growled.

With a parting cry of "Abominable man!" Rosaline tore out of the room.

Enjolras paused. _Did I really just do that? _He shook his head, gathered his things, and boarded the next train home.

XXX

_Dearest Mother,_

_ What I have to tell you is not easy, and I will understand if you want to cease correspondence with me immediately: I will not be marrying. I am dedicated to my dream of an equal world; a Republic. I strive to create a world where you can marry for love, not for money, or convince. That is just one part of my dream. I will not bore you with the rest of the details, Mother. What you must know is that I am already in love – with my country, with my motherland, with many other things. _

_ I love you dearly, and hope you can still love me, even if you cannot continue the Enjolras Empire._

_ Regards,_

_ -Julien Enjolras_

Combeferre looked over Enjolras's shoulder with a smile. "Are you sure, Julien?" he asked. "You are throwing away an entire life."

Enjolras nodded, taking Combeferre's face in his hands. "I already have a life, Étienne, and I love it."


	17. lillies that fester

**I don't ship this, and yet I now have three chapters of it. What is this world coming to? XD This chapter is dedicated to my dear friend TheIbis2010, who writes lovely poetry and may or may not be my long-lost twin brother. He loves Eponine, and wrote an entire story for her! **_**No God Above**_**; check it out. Well, enjoy! Another chapter coming tomorrow!**

**XXX**

"And so, goodbye,

My gamin fair.

Let your miserable soul

Fin'ly take to the air.

Come into the land where

You will be free.

A lovely land full of flowers

And trees.

A river tumbles,

And a few birds cry.

The stars always

Spangle the cool night sky.

You will live in this

Cloud-spun world,

Not a rose in misery,

But a rose in pearls.

You will have what you wish,

Be it food, fine frocks,

Or the love you've so always desired.

Sunlit walks, a tender embrace,

And a great roaring fire.

So comb out your curls,

Look about, greet your friends.

Just as promised,

You _have_ lived again.

I thank you for saving my life,

And please know I do love you.

Though only as a friend,

And I hope that will do."

He sighs the words, and wipes his eyes,

Worries his lower lip and cries.

What can the young man do but

Sob,

When he feels the guilt like

A stabbing throb?

The ugly girl did love him,

And he found out much too late.

She gave her life for his,

In some twisted turn of fate.

He could never love the gamin,

For his heart was full with another.

It was the Jardin's blonde lark;

He did love _her_.

So he feels this guilt,

And he feels this pain,

Hoping that his rose will

Be happy again.


	18. for i have sworn thee fair

**See, told you I would post an update today! Sorry for the wait. This shipping was requested by LittlePeopleKnow, a girl who loves her Gavroche. The OC in "Art is Love (Part Two)" belongs to her, actually. I played God here and manipulated the ages. Mua-ha-ha. Okay, so I'm reading the Brick, and just realized that Marius is twenty when Cosette is fifteen. I…had no idea. Well, well.**

**Yours,**

**-Georgie**

**XXX**

_Cosette dragged the gigantic wooden bucket through the wood, her skinny arms straining and her bare feet struggling for purchase on the nearly-frozen ground. She was shivering, clad in only a dirty brown frock and a thin shawl. The eight-year-old sniffed and carried on with her arduous task, praying that her feet would carry her faster. If she took too long, Madame would surely be liberal with the lash. _Go to the place where you're happiest, like 'Vroche taught you_, she instructed herself. _It'll make your task easier._ A slow image began to form in the young girl's mind as she struggled with the bucket: a beautiful blonde woman, with flowing hair and exquisite teeth, clad in a white gown, picking Cosette up and whispering, "I love you very much." Cosette wasn't sure when the fantasy had come about – she didn't know who the woman was, or why she loved her, but even on the darkest days, the image of the woman would comfort Cosette._

_She carried on with her mind's eye, singing softly, and picturing the beautiful woman whispering words of comfort. "Cosette, my child, I love you," the Blonde – as Cosette thought of the woman – murmured._

I love you._ What odd words. They meant many things – that you cared about someone, that you wanted to stay with them, that you put their needs above your own. That you would hug them and kiss them, make sure they were happy. The words were Earth-shattering at times, Cosette knew. Madame loved to read novels of cheap romance, and in those books, the words were a revelation. They were important. When a man said them to you, it was as if your world opened up, and your heart beat for the first time. Something like that. Cosette didn't know much about that kind of love, but there were many kinds. Love from mother to daughter, friend to friend, husband to wife. _

_Cosette had only ever loved three things in her life. She had loved the Thénardier's dog – Tache – but Tache had died when Monsieur Thénardier got angry at the dog for stealing scraps and hit him over the head with a pan. She had sobbed for hours on that night, but the dog was almost a fading memory now. She couldn't afford to care about Tache anymore. The Thénardiers certainly didn't. She also supposed that she loved the Blonde. Or at least, the Blonde loved her. The beautiful woman said as much every time Cosette went into her imaginary life. And finally, she loved Gavroche, the Thénardier's son. He was twelve years old, and took care of her as best as he could. He was a fine boy, always gifting her with little things. He was merry and sweet, even though his father was indifferent and his mother more or less hated him. Cosette thought that this was the closest thing she had ever felt to "husband and wife" love._

_Suddenly, a voice broke her from her thoughts: "Well, fair Mademoiselle, you shouldn't be out here alone in the dark of night!" Gavroche appeared, grinning, and took the bucket from her, offering her his arm. _

"_Thank you, 'Vroche," Cosette said shyly. She took his arm, and the two began to walk._

"_Always," Gavroche answered seriously. "I'll always help you, Cosette. And take care of you. Because you're my friend, and I care about you." _

_It was the closest thing to an "I love you" she had ever heard from a living person. Not the dog or the Blonde, but a real person. _

"_I care about you, too," Cosette said. "You're my best friend."_

"_Always," Gavroche repeated._

XXX

Fifteen-year-old Cosette sat with Papa in the Jardin du Luxembourg, quietly discussing the way the birds were flitting about. "They look so happy, Papa," she said. "So free." She sighed and gave a somewhat dreamy smile.

"Indeed they do, Cosette," Papa said. "You've been very pensive of late. Is everything well?"

"Oh, yes. Everything is fine, Papa. I'm sorry for worrying you. I've just been…thinking lately."

"Of what, child?"

"Well, when I lived with the Thénardiers, they had a son. His name was…Gavroche. He was the closest thing I had to a friend when I lived there. The boy was twelve, if I remember correctly. That would make him nineteen now. I was wondering what ever happened to him; if he's happy. One of the conversations we had I remember the most was when I was eight. We were in the woods together; it was on the night you found me, Papa. He told me that he would always take of me," Cosette finished. She elaborated on the tale, telling all of it. She could almost feel the freezing ground under her bare feet, or the coarse material of Gavroche's little coat when they had walked arm in arm. It was as if the whole night was coming back to her, more vivid than any memory she had ever experienced.

"He sounds like a delightful young fellow," Papa said gently. "I'm sure he's very happy now." He smiled and offered Cosette his arm; the two departed the Gardens.

The next day, Cosette was wandering the Jardin alone. Papa had permitted her to take a walk unaccompanied for three quarters of an hour and no more, and she was making the most of her time alone. It was a lovely day, with the sun shining down, and the birds singing. It was quite peaceful.

Suddenly, though, the peace was shattered. A young man of nineteen or twenty came dashing along the path, his long, dirty hair flying behind him. He had a wild, satisfied grin on his face; the grin of someone who has done something bad and is proud of the fact. He was wearing a tattered blue waistcoat (very out of fashion, Cosette noted), a stained white tunic, and a pair of coarse brown trousers. He was barefoot. "Mademoiselle, you'd best get outta here!" he panted, grabbing her arm. "And quick-like! Monsieur over there ain't happy with me, I can tell ya that."

Cosette, who was now being dragged along, was too surprised to do anything but run with him. "Who are we running from?" she asked, secretly very interested in this exciting turn of events.

"A fellow who I pick pocketed," the boy answered. "Guess he noticed, 'cause he's comin' this way with a pair of gendarmes and the Inspector himself." He let out a loud chuckle. "He doesn't know it, but I snitched his watch. Monsieur was a little too self-satisfied for his own good."

"Why have you taken me with you?" Cosette asked. "If he saw a young girl wandering the paths, he would leave her alone, would he not? It's you he's after." The young man tugged her behind a large hedge, pressing a finger to his lips. Cosette could hear loud footfalls coming right by the hedge.

"Where did that little thief go?!" an angry voice demanded. "If he thinks he can hide from me, then the boy is sorely mistaken!"

"Calm yourself, Monsieur le Comte," said another voice, probably a gendarme. "We will catch him, yet. I suggest we look over there." The footfalls receded after a few moments.

"You stole from a _Comte_?!" Cosette hissed. "You, sir, are a foolish thief! And besides, pick pocketing is wrong. You're a robber."

The young man's gaze hardened. "No, what I am is a poor boy tryin' to provide for his family. I've got another sister 'bout your age. She can't sew, can't draw. What work d'ya think a gamin girl with no skills will fall into if her brother can't provide enough money?"

"Oh." It was all Cosette could think to say.

"I also got another sister. She's thirteen; thinks herself a proper lady." He looked distracted, fond. "How can I protect her if I can't even get her food? I want her to stay innocent, y'see? So she still thinks herself a lady, and not just a dirty urchin. I also got two little brothers, and a mother dumb as a sack of potatoes, and a father who don't care. You tell me what I can do, girlie. I don't got any skills but pick pocketing and survivin' on the streets, and I got four siblings to care for. What would you do?"

Cosette couldn't respond. What _would_ she do?

"I can't just abandon 'Ponine and 'Zelma or my little brothers 'cause I have moral issues with snitching from haughty old Comtes," he said.

"Wait a moment…did you just say…'Ponine and 'Zelma?" Cosette asked slowly.

"_Oui_. Eponine and Azelma are their real names."

"_Gavroche_?" Cosette questioned. "Is it really you?" She grabbed the young man's hands, grinning widely.

"That's the name," the boy said. "Who are you? How d'you know me?" He looked utterly puzzled for a few moments, before a look of knowing crossed his face. "_Cosette_?"

"It _is_ you!" Cosette lunged foreword, grabbing Gavroche in a tight embrace. "Oh, Gavroche! I thought I would never see you again! We have so much to talk about, and you _must_ meet Papa! We can help you, if you'd like! Oh, my best friend is back!"

"Always," Gavroche grinned.


	19. enjoy'd no sooner, but despised straight

**Bonjour! Look at me – I'm getting updates done every day to every other day! Wow! I notice I'm getting less reviews than usual, though. Am I doing something wrong? If – when you review – you could leave a suggestion on what I could do better along with your usual review, I would be ever so grateful. So, this is Feuilly/Azelma as requested by LittlePeopleKnow. Here's the thing – so, as I said in the last chapter, I am currently reading the Brick. I realized that Azelma is like…thirteen in the Brick. I thought she was supposed to be fifteen. So, in this chapter, Azelma is thirteen. This is HEAVILY, HEAVILY, HEAVILY AU. There's a warning there. Like, the Thénardiers are rich and fancy and not urchins. **

**Yours,**

**-Georgie**

**XXX**

Azelma Marie Jondrette was thirteen years old, and her parents were marrying her off. She should have known it was coming, really. All respectable girls were married off young. They were more desirable that way. Why, imagine if she waited until she was…twenty (!) before marrying! Or, God forbid it, thirty! What a ludicrous thought!

Still, though, she thought she would have at least another year. Her sister 'Ponine hadn't gotten married off until she was fifteen, after all. Her husband was a rich young doctor named Étienne Combeferre. Azelma hadn't spent much time around the man, but from 'Ponine's letters, she knew that 'Ferre – as 'Ponine called him – was gentle, wise, and kind. 'Ponine was utterly smitten with him, and he with her. A fairytale romance is what it was.

_Will I be happy like 'Ponine? _Azelma thought from where she was praying the pew of the church. It was a lovely old chapel, with soaring ceilings and beautiful stained glass windows depicting not-so-beautiful scenes. Jesus getting crucified, his yellow-brown glass skin peppered with drips of red; Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, wondering why he was going to be killed; scenes of saints getting crucified, guillotined, and burned. So much red glass blood. It was almost disturbing if you really stopped and thought about it.

But Azelma shouldn't have been stopping to think about it. She should have been listening to the sermon. (Ironically enough, it was about the importance of obeying.) She was like that: always trying to be obedient and good, and ending up distracted. _Dear Lord, please let me learn to obey my parents' wishes without having reluctant thoughts in my head_, Azelma prayed. _If they think it wise to marry me off at thirteen, so be it. I may be asking for too much, but please let the man I marry treat me well. Amen._

As the Jondrette family departed the church, her brother wrestled with his black waistcoat, complaining. "Maman, it's much too tight!" he whined. "Can't I just play like the other boys, and not spend every minute in a church?"

Azelma glared at her brother. "Gavroche!" she hissed. "It would do you well to be more polite to Maman. And stop complaining! Consider it a privilege that we get to spend much of our time in the chapel!"

"Thank you, Azelma," Madame Jondrette said. "You're learning well."

"Thank you, Maman." Azelma felt sick. She felt the same way as Gavroche, and here she was reprimanding him for just being a playful little boy. _Lord, please change my mind._

XXX

It was a month from the day, and before Azelma knew it, she was now a one Madame Azelma Feuilly. The man her parents had chosen was a rich young student who spoke several languages and made beautiful fans in his spare time. He had curling red hair that he hid under a hat, and he dressed like a poor man even though he was rich. He was perfectly kind to Azelma, although that was about it. They slept in the same bed, but the only husbandly thing he had ever done was kiss her when the priest said, "You may kiss the bride."

He was a shy man, really, who kept to himself. He would have preferred to spend the days reading and painting than going to his classes. He often went off to some kind of revolutionary meeting, discussing the future and the republic. He didn't really talk to Azelma about those sorts of things.

Azelma liked Masselin – his first name, though he said that she could just call him Feuilly – plenty. He wasn't unkind at all…but she was ignored.

_Thank you, Lord, for answering my prayers. Masselin is kind and gentle; a good husband. He doesn't indulge in pleasures he shouldn't, and he cares about me…I think…amen._

Azelma sighed. _Do I love him? _Will_ I love him? Does he love me? _Can_ he love me?_

As if he had heard her thoughts, Masselin appeared. He looked uncomfortable, as he often did around her. In fact, he looked uncomfortable in his own house, in the very room. It was a dully-lit room with a shiny wooden floor and uncomfortable furniture scattered about. Azelma was sure she was the only one in the household who used it. "Hello," she greeted Masselin, curtsying.

"_Sault_, Azelma," Masselin said with a nervous smile. "No need to curtsy. You're my wife, not a kitchen maid."

_Did he just…make a joke_? Azelma thought. It seemed very out of character for Masselin. Along with the joke, this was the first time he had acknowledged her as his wife and not just "Azelma." She gave a small chuckle. "Alright, then. I apologize."

"So do I," Masselin said quickly. "Apologize, I mean. Azelma, these past few weeks, I've been treating you rudely. I ignore you, and we never talk of interesting things. I believe for one week, the most I said to you was 'Please pass the bread.' From now on, I'll make the utmost effort to treat you like a wife…and a friend. I was wondering if you might like to come to one of the meetings that I go to on Thursdays?" He looked genuinely hopeful.

"Well…apology accepted, Masselin," Azelma said, grinning. It looked as if things would take a turn for the better from here. "Thank you," she added in a quieter tone. "I'd love to come to one of your meetings. Would you tell me about them?"And tell her he did. She learned of the fiery, impassioned leader Enjolras; the outspoken, spirited brawler Bahorel; the womanizing dandy Courfeyrac, and many more. All of his friends sounded lively and genuinely fun. She was excited to meet them. She also learned of their mission for equality and liberty of all classes; this was why Masselin felt so guilty in his own house. He would rather he be poor and earn his own wages than live in a huge house off of his parents' fortune.

"But what can I do, 'Zelma?" he asked her. He seemed to have adopted the nickname very quickly. "My parents are fine people, and would be heartbroken if I just cut myself off from them."

"You're doing all you can," Azelma soothed.

The conversation must have gone on for at least an hour before Azelma made a connection. "The one you call Combeferre…is his wife by any change named Eponine?"

"I believe so. Why?" Masselin asked.

"She's my sister!" Azelma cried. This spouted a whole new wave of lively conversation. _Yes, _Azelma decided, _I believe that this will work out well._

Things didn't change immediately, of course. Masselin was still dreamy, and often forgot Azelma's presence. Sometimes it seemed as if he favored his art over her. Still, though, he was trying his best. He got a bit bolder, and one day when they were eating dinner and having a friendly debate about the usefulness of the republic, he shot foreword, grabbed her face, and kissed her.

"What was that for?" she asked.

"You looked lovely," Masselin said simply.

The fact that sooner or later that would need to have children to carry on the Feuilly family name haunted Azelma, and one night when they were in bed, she confessed this to Masselin.

"'Selin?" she asked quietly. He had taken to sleeping with his arms around her.

"'Zelma?"

"Well – it's just that…unh…children are expected in marriages like this, you know."

"Yes, I know."

"And – and…"

"Please, 'Zelma, don't feel shy about speaking to me."

"I don't think I'm ready to be a mother!" Azelma said suddenly.

"Oh. That's all?" Masselin asked, sounding not at all worried. "Well, then. We'll just wait. What with the upcoming revolution, I don't think I'm ready to be a father either. Besides all that, I don't ever want to take a step that big without making sure you consented fully. I love you, you know that?"

Azelma smiled. "You know what? I love you too, 'Selin."

It was the first time they had ever spoken those words to each other, but Azelma knew that they were true.


	20. you to my thoughts, as food to life

**Well, Solaria daughter of Apollo requested a super fluffy Eponine/Grantaire piece a while ago, and I finally got this banged out. I'm updating every day from today to Sunday, just a quick newsflash. On Monday, me and Bee (the anon reviewer who is so lovely) are going off to Idaho. I'll be gone for most of the week. And then, the week after that, I start high school. Less time for writing! ):**

**Yours,**

**-Georgie (or TT, as many call me)**

**XXX**

_Montparnasse grabbed Azelma by the arm, yanking her roughly along. "C'mon, you clumsy bitch!" he snarled. Azelma tripped over her feet, landing knees-first on the sidewalk. She bit back a cry, and tears began to run down her cheeks. "Really?!" Montparnasse cried. "Can't even stay upright can you, you little slut?"_

_ "Sorry!" Azelma gasped out. "I – I didn't mean to 'Parnasse!" She quickly got up._

_ "Of course you didn't," Montparnasse said sarcastically. _

_ "No, really! I –" Azelma tried._

_ "Did I tell you that you could contradict me?! You stupid thing!" Montparnasse shouted. He brought his hand back and slapped Azelma across the face so hard that she staggered._

_ "I'm sorry!" Azelma sobbed._

_ "You will be," Montparnasse growled, bringing out his switchblade._

XXX

Eponine shot up in bed, screaming. "Azelma!" she cried, groping about blindly. Her eyes were screwed tightly shut, and she was covered in a cold sweat. It was another nightmare about Azelma and Montparnasse. Eponine had always had a bad feeling about her little sister's boyfriend, and had even started having nightmares about him, but this was the worst one she had had so far. She cared about her little sister deeply, and was fiercely protective over the girl. When she had mentioned her uneasiness about Montparnasse to Azelma, though, Azelma had remained indignant, and honestly more than a little angry.

_ "I don't need you to take care of me, 'Ponine! I'm not a baby anymore!"_

_ "I'm just looking out for you, Zee. He's dangerous."_

_ "God, can't you just leave me alone?"_

Eponine took a deep, calming breath. This was what being a parent felt like, she reasoned. Trying to look out for the kid with every movement you made, and the kid just thinking you were trying to be overbearing. _Screw this_, she thought, and got up out of the bed. She made her way to the apartment across the hall, pillow in hand. Giving the door a soft knock, she waited. Eponine knew Grantaire would be awake; he was a notorious insomniac. A few moments later, the door swung inward.

There was Grantaire, in gray sweatpants and an oversize shirt. He yawned and scrubbed a hand over his stubbly face. "What's up, 'Ponine?" he asked with a smile, as if it weren't three in the morning.

"I had a nightmare," she said by way of explanation.

"C'mere," Grantaire said fondly, ushering her into his messy apartment.

Eponine diplomatically ignored the disconcerting amount of empty bottles (beer, mostly, along with a few vodka bottles and a bottle of cheap tequila; she hoped that it was accumulated from a long period of time, but knew that it wasn't) scattered around, stepping over an easel that had been slashed in half with black paint. There had been a painting on it before – all she could make out was a blonde ponytail – but now it was nearly unrecognizable. The two made their way to his bed, and she crashed down face-first.

"Sleepy?" Grantaire teased, playing with her hair.

"Mmmm," Eponine answered. "What do you think? I work two jobs and stay up half the night doing homework and freaking out about my siblings. No, not tired at all; just _peachy_."

"Go to sleep 'Ponine," Grantaire said gently. "You're angry when you're tired." He leaned down and took her in his arms, tangling their legs together.

"Thanks, R," Eponine murmured. "What would I do without you?"

"Die," Grantaire answered in an oddly serious voice. At Eponine's surprised, perturbed look, he grinned teasingly. "I'm joking, stupid. You'd be fine without me. You just wouldn't have a platonic boyfriend."

"No, you're like my platonic husband," Eponine said seriously. "Because you're staying with me for our whole lives. I'm not breaking off our not-relationship, you hear me? _Our whole lives_."

"Of course," Grantaire whispered. "Unless I platonically divorce you, of course." With that, he was snoring loudly in Eponine's ear.

Eponine smiled, before falling deep into a dreamless sleep.

XXX

"Grantaire?" Eponine asked around a mouth of pancake the next morning. She was wearing one of Grantaire's many giant old lady sweaters, which she was pretty sure belonged to Jehan. Grantaire had pieces of his friends all over his apartment – Jehan's God awful sweaters, one of Enjolras's fancy calligraphy pens, a garbage can decorated by Feuilly which was full of Bahorel's old bandages…many things. That was one of the things she liked about him: that he always had little bits of his friends – his family, really – with him.

"Yeah?" Grantaire asked. He was concentrating fully on emptying an entire container of maple syrup on to his obscenely high stack of pancakes.

" Well, I was thinking – wait a minute…ew."

"What?"

"I said ew."

"I heard that part. I mean ew-what?"

"You have like…ten pancakes on that stack."

"Eleven, actually. How is that gross?"

"Well, it's overeating. And also…the syrup."

"_What about it_?"

"You're squeezing an entire bottle of maple syrup on your eleven-strong pancake stack." Eponine visibly shuddered.

"_And_? Honestly, 'Ponine. Be serious. You've just narrated everything I'm doing."

"You know what? Never mind."

"Ohhhhhh-kay. Well, you had a question before, right? You were thinking something?" Grantaire asked, taking a bite into his mushy stack of thoroughly-soaked pancakes.

Eponine nodded. "You know how I said you were my platonic husband last night?" She watched Grantaire stuffing his face, and then looked away. She wouldn't be able to seriously ask her question if she was watching her best friend chew (open-mouthed, of course, the cretin) on a giant stack of disgustingness.

"Uh-huh. I remember."

"Well…what if…you weren't my platonic husband? Like…we were together, but…not platonically. Like…a real relationship. Not, like, marriage, though. Like…boyfriend-girlfriend." She groaned and buried her head in her hands. "Wow; that did _not_ come out as eloquent as I thought it would."

Grantaire looked thoughtful. "I mean, we could try. I don't have any qualms about it. We've done everything a couple does just…without being a couple, you know?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, then if I'm your not-platonic boyfriend now, let me do this." With that, he grabbed Eponine's face and kissed her. It was pleasant – if a little intense, and would have been a heck of a lot better if Grantaire's mouth hadn't been full of half-chewed pancake and sticky syrup.

Eponine drew back coughing. "R!" she shrieked. "Go brush your teeth!"

Grantaire laughed, skipping away to the bathroom. "Alright, alright. Whatever you say, 'Ponine. Just warning you, I'm going to try that again when I'm done brushing my teeth!"

And he did.

A lot.


	21. let's go hand in hand

**Okay, so chapter eight (My Heaven is with You), which seems to be one of the most beloved chapters, was prompted by my gal messed up stargazer. So, here's another prompt by her, which I hope y'all enjoy. It's Enjolras as the drunken cynic and Grantaire as the impassioned idealist. As I've said, I'm leaving for Idaho (just a vacation; not permanently) with Bee the anon on Monday. I will update this story daily until then, I promise. **

**Yours,**

**-Georgie**

**XXX**

Nicolas Grantaire. Étienne Combeferre. Robin de Courfeyrac. The three had been friends since early childhood when a young, lonely six-year-old Nicolas had been approached by three-year-old Robin, who demanded a playmate. The two had been fast friends ever since, and the addition of their beloved book-loving Étienne had just seemed natural. Étienne had been nine when he was added, an awkward, bespectacled youth prone to dreamy periods where he would yammer on about moths. Robin had been six, Nicolas nine as well. The three were thick as thieves, often causing some sort of trouble wherever they went.

When they were all old enough for college, they chose the same one, even going so far as to all bunk together in the same flat. Nicolas was studying politics and law; Étienne philosophy and medicine, and Robin wasn't quite sure what he wanted. One day, Étienne met a jolly young hypochondriac named Lucien Joly, who seemed to share the same revolutionary ideals as his two best friends. Shortly thereafter, Lucien was added to their group, and their little trio became a quartet.

Lucien's best friend was a witty boy named Lesgles, who was more than happy to regale his friends with a tale of his bad luck. He agreed with everything Lucien said; ergo, the quartet expanded once more. The five young men – Lesgles being the eldest at twenty-five – decided to form an official society to discuss their beliefs and plans of revolution. This was how Les Amis de l'Abaissés was formed.

Eventually, their back room group attracted the spirited brawled Victor Bahorel and his constant companion Masselin Feuilly, the orphaned artist. Five became seven. Their meetings grew longer, less formal, but still just as revolutionary. Nicolas now went by Grantaire. ("It sounds much more suited to a revolutionary leader, does it not? After all, Rousseau didn't go by Jean-Jacques, now did he?") After this change, Les Amis adopted their last names instead of their first names. Vic became Bahorel; Robin became Courfeyrac, or Courf, and Lesgles – for the purpose of humor – became Bossuet. Shortly after this, an effeminate, delicate young poet – the youngest of their group at seventeen – joined. His name was Jean, but he called himself Jehan. The others (with the exception of Courfeyrac) called him Prouvaire.

He brought a spirit of gentility to their meetings that they had lacked before. It really was the perfect mix of people – Bahorel brought his raucous humor to balance Combeferre's serious nature. Lesgles and Joly took it upon themselves to make everyone laugh on the days that Prouvaire scribbled down morose poetry. Feuilly's wry wit made everyone smile sardonically, each feeling a bit sad inside. Courf's effortless charm brought the group up again.

They went on this way for some months before a new addition to their tight-knit group was made. Prouvaire brought him up at a lull one day. "There is a new student in my poetry unit," he announced dreamily. "Such a complication, this one."

"Do tell," Bossuet said cheerfully, before a book fell from the shelf above him and landed upon his completely-bald head.

Joly began to fret over his best friend, muttering about head injuries. "Are you concussed, Bossuet?" he asked anxiously. "Do you feel unusually sleepy, or –?"

"Calm yourself, _ami_," Bossuet laughed. "I'm fine."

"Go on, Jehan," Courf said happily. "I want to hear all about this complicated student."

Prouvaire glowed under Courf's attentions. "He's a handsome young man, this one." At this, Courf glowered. "He has the palest lashes, and his hair all but _cascades_," he sighed dreamily. "The poetic inspiration I could get from him! He's a brilliant speaker, but sadly most of his eloquence is mumbled into a bottle." He sighed, as if he had just heard a piece of dreadful news. "He's a drunkard, I'm afraid. And a cynical one at that! The poor boy is troubled by demons; I can see it in his eyes. And oh, what pretty eyes they are!" While Prouvaire waxed poetic on his new inspiration, everyone in the group looked thoughtful.

"He sounds dreadful," Grantaire laughed. He was in good spirits after giving a particularly inspiring speech. _Oh, Prouvaire_, he thought fondly. _Picking up strays like a dogcatcher._ It was a particular habit of the little poet, being drawn to troubled souls and trying to fix them. _He means well, Grantaire_, the revolutionary reminded himself.

"Oh, no!" Prouvaire cried, aghast. "He's a wonderful chap! When he's not drinking himself half to death, he's quite intelligent, and eloquent, as I said before. Feuilly, you might like to paint him sometime." Suddenly, something in Prouvaire's eyes flashed.

_Oh, God. He's wearing The Look_, Grantaire thought.The Look was something only Jean Prouvaire could pull off, a combination of sparkling, hopeful eyes, pleadingly clasped hands, and a look of infinite sadness and quiet disappointment that would wash over his face if you said the wrong thing.

"Grantaire, he's a brilliant arguer! Maybe…maybe he could join Les Amis!" Prouvaire cried. "Oh, it's the perfect thing! You could keep him in check, and we could keep him from drowning in the bottle. Oh, yes! He could contribute as well, he could."

"What could a cynic like he possibly contribute? A drunkard doesn't belong with idealists such as we," Grantaire said firmly, reminded far too much of his father, an angry alcoholic.

"Well, excuse me, Apollo. I can see that this Dionysus isn't wanted," a voice said. It had to be the young man that Prouvaire was fawning over. He had messy, tangled blonde hair tied back in a tail, brilliant eyes, crossed arms, and an indignant yet slightly hurt look about him. He looked around the back room that he stood in the doorway of, observing the friendly look of the room. It was paneled with wood, and a cheery fire blazed in the hearth. There was a large, antique-looking map of France as a _République _nailed to one of the walls. _Ah, an idiot as usual, Dionysus_, he thought. _Jehan's friends are not your friends. _

"No, no, Julien!" Jehan creed. "Of course you're wanted!" He shot a nasty glare in Grantaire's direction. "Ignore Monsieur Grantaire."

Enjolras looked around, eyeing the guarded expressions of Jehan's friends. "Ah, so you are all judgmental liberals," he said, laughing dryly at his own joke.

An impossibly tiny ginger-haired man was the first to crack a smile. "Feuilly," he said, shaking Enjolras's hand. "Masselin Feuilly."

"Good to meet you," Enjolras grinned. "Julien Enjolras. Don't call me Enjy."

Feuilly laughed, clapping Enjolras on the back.

Grantaire watched this all with a somewhat disapproving frown. It was no secret to him that he had been tainted by sin from an early age; he had always been attracted to men. Only his group of friends knew that, but none of them treated him any differently for it. In fact, it was barely mentioned. Sometimes Courf would say, "R, _mon ami_, I saw a handsome young lad walking through the halls yesterday…" and earn a cuff for it. None of his friends were repulsed by the fact, and Grantaire had no doubts that Courf was like he was. He seemed to pine after Prouvaire. And now, it was almost as if Grantaire could have very easily been after this handsome, broken young man. _Merde._

XXX

Over the next few months, Grantaire was consistently infuriated by this Julien Enjolras. The man had no qualms about interrupting Grantaire in the middle of a particularly great speech just to make some joke. (Or – more often than not – give a point that actually strengthened the speech. Not that Grantaire would ever say this, of course.) He was irritatingly brilliant – intelligent, cunning, a great boxer, great artist, and amazing at a game of singlesticks. He and Grantaire had played a few times, and the game never lasted more than five minutes. Enjolras often showed up to the meetings completely drunk, a fact that irritated Grantaire to no end. One day, he had finally had enough.

"Enjolras! You are a drunken fool who believes in nothing. Why do you even bother to show up to these meetings if all you do is mock our ideals? No…not "our." They are not your ideals at all! We would be better off without you, you winecask!" he roared.

Enjolras looked stricken. Yes, Grantaire had been harsh with him before, but never to this extent. "Would it please you, noble leader?" he choked out.

"YES!" Grantaire shouted. "It would please me very much to never see you again!"

"Grantaire!" Prouvaire shouted at the same moment Enjolras gave a sickening smile and ran out of the Musain.

Enjolras didn't show up for the next two weeks, and when they finally did find him, he was lying in the gutter, bruises covering his body and harsh cuts in his arms. A freshly scabbed-over cut made its way down his leg: letters reading "WINECASK."

Grantaire was sick with himself after this, but how could he apologize for something that? Apologies had never been his strong suit. Public speaking, charisma; not intimacy or even kindness. _Besides_, Grantaire reasoned with himself, _he's still alive, is he not? He took the weak way out, anyway. I was rude, yes, but…he should have known I wasn't serious. Yes. This whole thing is his fault._

XXX

And just one week later, when he gently asked if Grantaire permitted him to die at his feet, Grantaire's last thought was: _I could have done so much more. It was not his fault after all. _All he could do was give Enjolras one final smile…before the world was awash with red, and then faded to black.


	22. rosy lips and cheeks within

**Three reviews? I swear there must be something wrong if I'm down to three. Thank you to those who reviewed. Somebody requested this pairing. And this…thing came about. I don't even know. Updated tomorrow and Sunday, then I'm off for a week. **

**Mildly irritated,**

**-Georgie**

**XXX**

Once upon a time, quite a long time ago, in a kingdom far away, there lived a handsome dragon and a feisty peasant girl. A bit about the dragon first: he was _huge_. That was the first thing that anyone noticed about him. It was like having your vision filled with a giant red mountain. His scaly hide was flaming red, and his eyes were a remarkable shade of amber. His teeth were long and serrated, white as pearls. His claws curled into vicious points, and with one off-hand swipe, he could cut a human in several neat pieces. His ragged wings made him appear even more giant, and when he spread them to their full length, they blocked the sun. As if to make him even scarier, his tail ended in a terrifying half-moon blade, still the same reddish shade as his hide, but often speckled with _other_ shades of red. His name was Victor Bahorel, and once upon a time, he had been a handsome young human boy who went solely by his last name. Sadly, though, he had succeeded in angered a witch one too many times, and she had transformed him into the beast he was today. He lived alone in a mountain cave by a lake, and spent his days burning things for his amusement and slaughtering the sheep that were stupid enough to wander by his lake.

One day, though, Bahorel happened to be flying to the kingdom. He had long since given up hope of becoming human again, and honestly quite enjoyed being a dragon, but he did like to see what the humans were up to now and again. When he was a boy, architecture had fascinated him, and it still did. This was why he chose to land in the castle courtyard, admiring the flying buttresses and lovely archways.

And that was when he saw…_her_.

She was a low-class girl, obviously. He could guess that she had no more right to be in the castle courtyard than he did. She was slinking behind the statues, her lovely dark eyes darting around. Anyone could see that the royal orchard was her target. From her skinny, haggard appearance, he wagered that she was after the fruit.

A few words on this girl. Her name was Eponine Thénardier, and she was a sprite of sixteen. She lived in the village in a hovel with her large family, who had been having even more trouble than usual procuring food lately. The bony girl was the main provider, considering her parents were absent at best. While often sad and pensive, the waif had a spirited disposition, and would often toss her long, dark hair with a laugh and bite out some bit of cynical humor. Currently, she was sneaking into the castle orchards for some of their plums.

And Bahorel, staggered, was watching her. While scrawny and angry-looking, she was actually quite beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that he did the first thing he could think of: shoot out a clawed paw and snatch the girl, tightening his fist so that she couldn't get away, yet was comfortable. To his surprise, she didn't scream. She just looked irritated.

"Put me down this instant!" she hissed.

"No," Bahorel said. His giant heart was beating faster and faster at each blink of her alluringly dark eyes.

"If you're some sort of new castle security system, I apologize," she said impatiently. "I've learned my lesson, and won't try to steal from the orchards again. Pardon me for having a starving family." She quirked an eyebrow.

"I'm no oversize watchdog!" Bahorel snarled, wondering if dragons could blush. "I don't care if you steal the entire castle staff; I'm loyal to no one."

"Then why are you holding me against my will?" she challenged.

"I'll consider letting you go if you tell me your name," Bahorel said. _Where did that come from?_ he thought.

"Eponine," the girl said impatiently. "My name is Eponine. Now let me go."

"My name is Victor Bahorel," Bahorel introduced himself. He gave a somewhat wolfish grin. "I only said I could _consider_ letting you go, didn't I? Tell me more about yourself, and I'll think on the issue some more."

Eponine rolled her eyes. "You, sir, are a stubborn beast. Most dragons would have eaten me by now, though, I suppose, so there's that. Imagine the tales I could tell my family – I was kidnapped by a dragon, and all he wanted from me was my life story!" She seemed to be talking mostly to herself now. "Well, it's a sad life story you'll get, sir. But first, if you're really so insistent on keeping me, at least do me a favor."

"What? Anything!" Bahorel said quickly, eager to please Eponine.

"Get two or three of those plums to my family," she said. "You're a sizable dragon; you can handle it."

"Of course," Bahorel said excitedly. He beat his heavy tail against the ground, causing a few dozen plums to fall from the trees. At Eponine's delighted expression, he brightened. "I can do better than that." He used the half-moon blade on his tail to sheer a few trees of their prizes – apples, plums, even more peaches, and oranges.

"Good God!" Eponine cried. "And you intend to give this all to my family?"

"All of it," Bahorel said happily, proudly. He curled his tail into a sort of basket for the fruit, and used his curled claws to form another Spartan carrying apparatus. When he had all he could carry, he took to the air, careful not to drop a single fruit or dislodge his passenger. "Where is your home?" he asked.

Eponine pointed to a rickety hut a mile or so away. With one powerful flap of his wings, he was soaring toward the poor-looking house, and unceremoniously dumped the hoard of fruit into the sad excuse for a garden. "Now, fair lady, we go," he said, and pushed off skyward. Eponine peered over the top of his scythe-like claws, looking as the ground blurred by underneath them.

"This is amazing!" she breathed. "How do you not get distracted by all of this?"

"Less of my story; more of yours," Bahorel grunted, certainly distracted, but not by the landscape. "You've promised me a personal history," he reminded her.

"Oh. How could I forget?" Eponine said dryly. "Well, as I said, it's a sad tale. I was born relatively well-off. My sister and I had good frocks, and our little brother was happy, if ignored. When I was eight, my father made a poor gamble, and we lost nearly everything. Food became harder to come by, and we often went for days without a bite of bread. Two more children came along, and then…it all seemed to get even worse from there. My father grew abusive, and my once-feisty sister grew submissive and sad. My younger brother was turned out into the streets, and my two youngest brothers were sold to the butcher's wife. She treats them well, though, so I'm glad that they're happy, at least. Still, though, it seems as if my father isn't. Whenever he sees them in the marketplace, he beats my younger sister and me savagely."

Bahorel made a fist, growling. "That no-good –"

"No!" Eponine said sharply. "I don't want your pity, sir. You wanted my story, and I gave it. That's all. Now, what about your life?"

They had reached Bahorel's mountain cave, and he flew downward, finally letting Eponine out of his grip. She settled down on the grassy lakeshore, dipping her feet in the water. "Ahh, this is heavenly," she sighed. "What I wouldn't give to live up here with you."

"Why don't you?" Bahorel blurted. "You could bring your sister, before you object. Even the turned-out brother if you wish. Sometimes I miss human company. You see, you asked for my life story, didn't you? And I used to be a human like you before – it was many years ago, now – I angered a witch. A one Madame Thénardier. She told me that unless I found someone to love; I would be a dragon forever." He beat his tail upon the ground again. "And here I am today."

"You would let us live with you?" Eponine asked.

"Of course."

"Then I say yes!" she cried, gifting him with a kiss upon his great, scaly lips. And before Bahorel knew it, he had transformed into a golden-skinned young man clad in flame-red clothing, holding a skinny urchin girl in his arms.

"You – you," he stammered.

"Yes!" Eponine grinned. "Indeed. The woman who cursed you was my mother. She did this kind of thing often before she died. I remembered her telling me about the young man she had cursed. She told me that he would one day be my love."

Bahorel wiggled his fingers and walked in a circle, grinning with human lips. "Thank you," he said. "I mean this, Eponine."

"Another thing she told me – that he would be very handsome," she teased. "And you can still turn into a dragon at will, if you're interested," she added slyly. "You may want to transform for the journey to get my brother and sister."

Bahorel nodded, transforming back into the dragon he had been for so many years. He picked Eponine up gently and deposited her on his back. "Come. We have a journey to make," he said, and the two took to the skies once more.


	23. no longer mourn for me

**Well, it only took me an hour or so to write this! The words flowed easier than I expected. Do forgive me, as this is the first time I've ever written Fantine. So, a chapter with Fantine was requested by the lovely AzureOtter. Do read her story "Fantine's Trials." It's utterly amazing, and she captures Fantine so well it's scary! :3 Well, one more update before I'm off to Idaho with Bee! And also, thanks for getting better with the reviews!**

**Yours,**

**-Georgie**

**XXX**

Maman didn't tell me what she did for me until I was twelve years old. She and Papa were strolling in the garden, and I was working on my sewing when suddenly she came into my room. Maman was so beautiful, then. The late afternoon sunlight caught her hair and made it sparkle and I just sat there in awe. She pulled the little stool from the front of my vanity and sat down on it, looking me right in the eyes. "Cosette, dear," she began, "do you know how your father and I met?"

"No, Maman," I answered. My friend 'Chetta had been talking of her parents' love story only yesterday, and I had always been interested in my mother's, but she had always said "When the time is right." Now that she was actually telling me, I put my sewing aside, interested.

"Well, the first thing you must know is that…when you were young, and lived with the Thénardiers, I tried desperately to earn enough money to bring you back to me," she said softly.

_Maman is so selfless_, I thought happily. _She never cared about herself during those years. Only me. _When I was much younger, I had secretly harbored bitter feelings about the way she left me with the Thénardiers, but I had quickly wised up, and would have lived a hundred years with them if it would help Maman. "Thank you," I whispered, trying to match her soft tone.

"Of course, my darling," she said with a smile, smoothing down my hair. "I worked in one of the mayor's sewing factories for a bit, but I was never very good at sewing. I still am not."

This was true; I had to sew up all of my torn frocks. It was Papa who had taught me to sew; not Maman.

"Well, I was…released from my services in the sewing factory because of certain complications." I was about to ask what sorts of complications there were, but she continued on before I could even open my mouth. "I had to send money to the Thénardiers to take care of you, and they began demanding more and more money. I…I was young and scared, then. I sold as much as I could, including my hair."

I gasped. "Maman!" I cried. "But…your hair is so beautiful!" _She sacrificed her greatest virtue for me_, I thought.

"It grew back, _cherie_," she teased lightly, but I could see some flash of old pain alight in her eyes. "And I earned enough from this to send the money that I needed to. That was all that mattered to me. But then the Thénardiers said you were getting very sick, and I needed to send them fifteen francs."

I thought back to my horrible time with them. Even though they had fiercely mistreated me, I didn't think I had ever gotten seriously ill. "Maman, I was never very sick," I said, puzzled.

A look of sheer pain washed over her face, turning it white. For a moment, she was frozen like that, her pretty mouth turned severely downward. She clenched her hands into fists.

"Maman?" I asked, getting scared.

"They…they lied," she whispered.

It hit me, then. Those despicable people had lied about my health just to squeeze more money out of Maman, and she had had to sell her hair even before all of that! No to mention the dread she must have felt!

"Oh, Maman," I whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

She calmed, smoothing down her dress and giving me a weak smile. "Oh, that's all a thing of the past now. Besides, none of this is your fault, _cherie_. Don't worry yourself over it. Now, back to the story." She shook her head. "Ah, well, what could I do? My two front teeth were pulled, and I got my francs."

She looked so calm when she spoke these words. As before, there was a brief flash of something in her eyes, but other than that, she was the picture of "Everything is fine." Sitting there on the little stool, just conversing, she looked utterly perfect. The sun was going down, setting the sheer curtains afire with orange light. The whole room was suddenly awash with orange. It was beautiful, and Maman was _glowing_. My mouth must have been hanging open, because she gifted me with a soft smile.

"Maman, your teeth – I…I…" I stammered. I believe I may have choked out something to the effect of "So sorry!"

"I told you not to apologize," she said gently. "I acquired two false teeth, anyhow, so nothing to worry over. What's past is past. I'm telling you all of this because I believe you are ready for it."

"Yes, Maman," I said.

"Now, the demands got higher and higher, and I had no means of income. The billing for my furniture was due, and I was desperate. The woman who lived in the rooms below me – a nice old woman she was, though long gone now – had shown me how to live poor. But it wasn't enough."

"What did you do?" I asked, breathless. I could almost picture her as a young woman, her hair shorn to the point of baldness, her two front teeth missing, and a bitter scowl upon her face. I could picture her standing in some dimly lit rooms, and I could all but feel her desperation.

"I…delved into a darker profession," she murmured, looking down as if ashamed.

_What could she mean?_ I thought. _Grave robbing? Thieving? Surely not…_ I gasped, looking straight at her. "You mean you became a…a…prosti –"

"_Don't you ever say that word, Euphrasie!_" she said sharply.

I felt chastised, but confused. "Am I wrong?" I ventured to ask.

She sighed softly. "No."

"No," I echoed back emptily. "I am not wrong. Oh, Maman." I was shocked and – while sick with myself for feeling this way about my own mother – a little disgusted. But the emotion I felt on top of all of this was a deep, cavernous sense of pity, and an overwhelming wave of sadness. I could see Maman's eyes go glossy with tears, and felt close to weeping myself. I knew she wouldn't want me to apologize, though, and that she would be offended by my pity. So we just sat there for a few minutes, tears silently dripping down her cheeks and her hands tangled in her lap. Before I knew it, I had begun to cry as well. Eventually, though, she looked up.

"One day, as I was walking the streets, a man threw a lewd comment at me. I didn't respond, and just kept patrolling up and down the walkway. He wasn't satisfied with this, and every time I passed him, he would make a remark. They grew more offensive with each pass. Eventually, he grabbed me and shoved a handful of snow down the back of my dress."

I drew in a sharp breath. "That _bâtard_!" I shouted without thinking. To think of someone making rude comments at my mother, and then shoving snow down her dress…it ignited ungodly anger in me.

"Cosette!" Maman gasped. She gave me a strong look for saying the word, but I could see humor at the edge of her eyes. "Well, I turned around and lashed out, striking him and drawing blood. He called for the police, and an Inspector showed up."

"Like Papa?" I asked.

She grimaced. "Well, this is where the story may get a bit hard for you to believe, darling."

"I don't know, Maman," I said, attempting to make a joke, "I've heard some hard to believe things today. An Inspector is the least of it."

She grimaced again. "It…_was_ your Papa."

"Wait a moment," I said quickly. "But…how can that be so? If the Inspector _was_ Papa, I would have not been born yet. And, you were doing your…_work_…by then, so I was born. I'm confused, Maman." And with a sorrowful look, that was how she explained the reason she was fired from the sewing factory: my father was a student named _Félix Tholomyès. But he__ had abandoned my mother without knowing she was pregnant. On the night that she was arrested it was Papa who had done the arresting. She had apparently been very sick, then, and had spouted out a whole half-delirious speech to him, including the fact that she had a young daughter. The Inspector's heart was made of stone, she said, but even he could not stand to see a young child suffering. He had locked her in a cell overnight and ordered the other, lower-level gendarmes not to do anything with his "prisoner." He had traveled to the inn where I was being kept and rescued me, seeing that "his prisoner" was indeed telling the truth. He had taken Maman in, finding a loophole within the law since he could never bear to break it. He had nursed her back to health, and apparently when I had started calling him "Papa," he was done for. _

_ I had always thought that the man who came for me really was my father. I wanted to be angry, but somehow I just couldn't bring myself to be. Really, I just felt relieved that I finally knew this, even if it was a grim truth that I hadn't expected. And besides, how could I ever bring myself to be angry with Maman when she had sacrificed so much for me? _

_ She looked sad, and I lurched forward and hugged her. All I could say was, "Thank you!" _


	24. i bear a charmed life

**This is the last chapter 'fore Bee and I scoot off to Idaho. I got a request for Cosette/Bahorel and Cosette/Grantaire. And Eponine/Enjolras and Eponine/Courf. So this monstrosity happened. I'm aware that this is horrible. But you try updating every day! XD**

**XXX**

"Feuilly."

The artist sat bolt upright in the darkness of his room. "Who's there?" he hissed, reaching under his pillow for the knife he always kept there. He wasn't scared; he was never scared, just surprised. After years of living in the crappy system for years, he had learned to always be prepared and never be without some sort of weapon. He palmed the knife. "I said who's there?" he growled, a little louder.

"Whoa! Don't get all rabid ginger on me," a voice said.

Feuilly sighed, releasing his death grip on the blade. "Bahorel…why are you in my room at –" he checked his clock here "– three in the morning?" It wasn't as if this wasn't a common occurrence. Bahorel had no regard for others sometimes. Okay. All the time. And evidently had no qualms about shoving his problems at people at three in the morning.

"Because…I need your help," Bahorel said, jumping on Feuilly's bed.

"To figure out why you're a six-year-old in a twenty-four-year-old's body?" Feuilly said wearily, looking up at his giant friend, who just gave him a cheeky grin and kept bouncing up and down. "Bahorel, I work at eight. This had better be good."

Bahorel stopped jumping abruptly and landed with an apartment-shaking _WHUMP _on the bed next to Feuilly. The tiny boy bounced about three feet in the air. "God, 'Rel," he grumbled. "It's too early for this."

"We're proposing," Bahorel blurted, his fists clenched.

"Wait…what?" Feuilly asked, fully awake now. "'Rel…I…are you sure?" His best friends had been in a relationship with Cosette Fauchelevant for a year now, and no one had thought it would work. After all, Cosette was a flower, and Grantaire and Bahorel were like briars. But, to everyone's surprise, it had worked. The three were the best of friends, and hardly ever fought. In fact, they had inspired everyone's favorite Fearless Leader to finally get up the gumption to ask out Courf and 'Ponine. Musichetta liked to joke that they were the "Polyamorous Friends of the ABC."

"Completely," Bahorel answered. "It's not like we'll be seeing anyone else, you know. Why not settle down?"

"Settle down?" Feuilly asked, shaking his head. "Never thought I'd hear the words come out of your mouth."

Bahorel gave a wan smile. "I have no idea what to do."

"Well…just take her to a romantic location and pop the question, I guess. It's not like I have any experience in this." Feuilly shrugged. "I mean, think about it, you guys can't even _really_ get married. It's more of a commitment that you're asking, you know?"

"I guess. Okay. Thanks, Fi." What that, Bahorel slithered out the window, on to the fire escape, and off into who knows where.

Feuilly just kind of looked after him for a moment before rolling his eyes, burying his head in his pillow, and trying to go back to sleep. (He didn't.)

XXX

Cosette stood in the grassy park alone, sitting on a bench by the lake. It was a beautiful day, with the sun shining down and making the water sparkle. There were bunches of baby ducks on the water, paddling around clumsily. She giggled, tossing them bits of bread. Suddenly, Grantaire's head appeared above water. He was holding one of the baby ducks. Bahorel – also with a baby duck in hand – appeared soon after.

"Wh-what?" Cosette asked, considering the fact that her boyfriends had just appeared from underwater and not understanding.

With that, Grantaire kneeled down in front of Cosette, holding out the duck. Bahorel did the same thing.

"Cosette Fauchelevant, will you do us the honor of becoming Cosette Grantaire-Bahorel?" Grantaire asked, looking like was about to faint.

Cosette's eyebrows rose. "Oh…wow," was all she could stammer out. "Did you two just propose to me with baby ducks?"

"Uh…yeah," Bahorel answered, "It was R's idea."

Cosette took Bahorel's duck out of his hands, stroking its feathers. "Do I get to keep the ducks if I say yes?" she asked.

Grantaire nodded mutely.

"Then yes!" Cosette squealed, diving downwards, and hugging her boys.

XXX

"We could propose too, you know," Courf said from where he was lying on the floor. Eponine looked down at him from the couch.

"Like…marriage?" she asked.

"Well, yeah," Courf said. "I mean, I dunno. If you don't like the idea that's fine. I was just thinking about it."

"Well…you would have to propose to me first," Eponine said off-handedly.

"Oh. Uh…okay." He got up and kneeled down on one knee. "Eponine Thénardier, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

"I dunno…any man who proposes to me in footie pajamas can't be responsible," she grinned.

"C'mon 'Ponine!" Courf whined. "My knee is cramping up!"

"Your ego is cramping up," she muttered. "Ahh, what the heck. Sure!"

And the next day, they included Enjolras in their little union.

XXX

Sabine Enjolras listened to the story calmly. Henri Grantaire-Bahorel rolled his eyes. "You guys proposed to Maman with baby ducks?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Eh," Grantaire shrugged. "You'll understand when you're older."

"Dad!" Henri whined. "I'm fourteen; not four!"

Sabine snorted. "You behave like a four-year-old," she said coolly, a perfect imitation of Enjolras's "You-are-all-Neanderthals" voice. It was a habit she was adopted when she was about six.

"You look like a Neanderthal!" Henri growled a perfect mix of Grantaire and Bahorel's "I can't-think-of-any-better-insult" voice.

"Guys, c'mon!" Luc Joly called. "We're gonna be late to the movie!"

"Okay, okay," Henri said. He took Sabine's hand, winking at her. "Maman, Papa, Papa, we're gonna leave now."

"Bye, parental units!" Sabine called affectionately. (She was most decidedly Enjolras's child. Courf didn't mind too much, though, as Robin Jr. was on the way.) She and Henri ran over to Luc, Henri wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Most parents wouldn't approve of the three teens' relationship. But what could they do? It ran in the family.


	25. what a piece of work is man

**I thought it was gonna be the last update before we scooted off to Idaho, but I guess not. Inspiration struck. Eh. This took me forever to write. It's based off of the song "On the Bus Mall" by The Decemberists. It's a lovely song by a lovely band. :3 I guess this is sorta to make up for the terrible chapter I posted earlier today.**

**Yours,**

**-Georgie**

**XXX**

"_In matching blue raincoats,_

_Our shoes were our showboats,_

_We kicked around."_

XXX

The two boys donned their blue raincoats, tying up their ratty Chuck Taylor high-tops. One shoved a stained green beanie over his wild black curls. The other secured his blonde ponytail inside a newsie cap. ("If they see my hair, they'll give me grief about it, R. It's easier this way." "But I _like _your hair, Apollo." "So do I, but I'm doing this so I don't get beat up.") The boy with the green beanie picked up a duffel bag and slung it across his body, grinning at the blonde boy, who put on a red backpack that was more duct tape than fabric.

They exited the large, cookie-cutter McMansion, Grantaire kicking through puddles and trying to splash Enjolras, and Enjolras decidedly ignoring his partner in crime until the constant splashes began to get irritating.

"Grantaire, we're wearing raincoats. The point is so that we don't get wet. If we get wet, we'll get colds, and if we get colds, we'll need medicine. And if we need medicine, we'll have to go back. Do you wanna go back?" Enjolras said with a glare.

Grantaire's face paled. "No. I can't ever go back to that place." They continued walking in silence for a while, Grantaire's demons haunting him.

"R…I'm sorry," Enjolras said quietly when the usually talkative boy had been silent for a full ten minutes. "That wasn't an okay thing to say."

Grantaire looked up with a weak smile. "S'fine," he chuckled, trying to brush it off. "Don't worry about it, 'Pollo."

He didn't kick through the puddles anymore.

XXX

"_From stairway to station,_

_We made a sensation_

_With the gadabout crowd."_

Their lives as runaways went well for a while. They spent their days roaming the city – and Lord, was it a huge city. They found a horse that had run away from one of the carriage tours and rode it through Central Park, whooping like cowboys. They stood outside of the theatres, pretending to actors and fooling people into actually asking for their autographs. They ran through the subway tunnels in the middle of the night, screaming obscene words just for their amusement.

Grantaire lounged in stairways, looking for all the world like a lazy jungle cat. It was how he met a half-crazed, grumpy, people-loving starving artist named Feuilly. A mountain ("R, don't stereotype people because of their bodies." "No, I'm serious. He's literally a _mountain_.") came with Feuilly like a package deal. His name was Vic Bahorel, but said if you called him Vic – or God forbid – Victor, he would flay you. Eventually, they made friends with a whole gadabout group – Courf the sparkling-eyed, cheerful prostitute; Joly the obsessive-compulsive, anxiety-ridden hypochondriac drug dealer; his _really_ unlucky but scarily happy partner Bossuet; Jehan the beautiful yet tortured poet, who also had prostitution as a side job; and Combeferre, the only one of them with an actual house. They called him "Mama 'Ferre." He was a lawyer-turned-medic-turned-accountant-turned-corru pt-Robin-Hood-style-banker.

They were misfits; ragtag. A messed up family. Demons haunted the gentle smile of Jehan, the blithe grin of Courf, and, more reasonably, the I'm-about-to-have-a-panic-attack smile of Joly. Dark shadows gathered under the eyes of Combeferre, who bent over backwards to care for his motley crew. The perpetual frowns of Feuilly and Bahorel deepened when they brought in a sixteen-year-old abuse case named 'Ponine. And soon after her, a cheerful, unabashed sinner named Musichetta.

"Any more girls and this'll become a cheerleader squad," Bahorel grumbled, to which Jehan responded with a quick, angry, "Misogynist!" It was one of his bad days, when he quoted Poe and muttered Evanescence lyrics.

XXX

"_And oh, what a bargain,_

_We're two easy targets_

_For the old men at the off-tracks,_

_Who've paid in palaver _

_And crumpled old dollars,_

_Which we squirreled away_

_In our rat-trap hotel by the freeway._

_And we slept in Sundays."_

Jehan and Courf often came home with wrinkled dollar bills clutched in their fists and tight, sad smiles. The crumpled bills were collected in a huge plastic pickle tub that Bossuet had rescued from a Dumpster. Eventually, they began to pile up with the help of Joly and occasionally Combeferre. Bahorel wasn't much help – he was more in the "Can't-I-just-beat-up-a-tourist-and-steal-their-wa llet?" mindset. Feuilly was getting too neurotic to be of any help whatsoever. He had developed a habit of the shakes – even worse than Joly. The only thing would calm him was a cigarette, and those were meager already. Eventually, though, they had enough money to rent a room in a disgusting hotel by the freeway. It was out of the city, which was a bonus to some and loss to others: Grantaire loved the wild spirit, and Enjolras thankful to be away from it.

They allowed Feuilly and Joly one of the beds and gave Courf and Jehan the other. The first two were getting so anxiety-ridden that the others wanted to treat them as well as they could. And the latter two had earned most of the money, so it was only fair that they got a real bed. Bahorel crashed in the (yellowing) bathtub, Bossuet slept on the floor next to Joly, their hands entwined, and Musichetta had taken to curling up with Bossuet. 'Ponine would convince Bahorel to scoot over and make room for her in the tub. Grantaire and Enjolras slept in a heap on the floor. Combeferre lived in his house. On Sunday, they slept till noon.

XXX

"_Your parents were anxious;_

_Your cool was contagious _

_At the old school._

_You left without leaving a note_

_For your grieving, sweet mother_

_While your brother was so cruel."_

Grantaire had been one of those badass misfit types at his and Enjolras's old school. He didn't care about anyone but "his Apollo." He did everything he wasn't supposed to, and had no regard for others. His mother still retained the feeble hope that he would shape up and "be a good boy." His mother was a good woman, and in all honesty he actually did hate to disappoint her. She was sweet, and always tried to make light of terrible situations – from her alcoholic bastard of a husband smacking her around, to her eldest son still living at home and seeming to make it the sole purpose of his life to make his younger brother miserable.

When Grantaire had decided to run away with Enjolras, he had actually tried to leave a note. "Sorry, Mom, but I ran away" didn't really seem to cut it, though, so he just left.

XXX

"_And here in the alleys,_

_Your spirits were rallied_

_As you learned quick to _

_Make a fast buck._

_In bathrooms and barrooms,_

_And dumpsters and heirlooms._

_We bit our tongues,_

_Sucked our lips into our lungs_

'_Till we were falling._

_Such was our calling."_

It seemed as if Grantaire and Enjolras had finally found their niche in Les Amis – a sarcastic name given to them by a depressed Jehan one day. They were the Jacks of all trades; the "we-can-just-do-everything-if-we're-not-good-at-an y-particular-thing" guys. They hooked up with lonely girls, salvaged what they could from dumpsters and trash heaps, and, on occasion, stole valuables from antique stores and then sold them right back to the same unsuspecting owners. ("I don't like doing this, R. It's dishonest." "Apollo, if they can't even keep track of their own merchandise, I'd say they deserved it. I mean, any fool could see that I just sold him his own stuff." "Still, though…" "It gets easier when you're starving.")

XXX

"_And here in our hollow,_

_We fuse like a family. _

_But I will not mourn for you._

_So take up your makeup, _

_And pocket your pills away._

_We're kings among runaways._

_We're down_

_On the bus mall." _

In Combeferre's house, The Hollow, as they called it, it seemed as if a magnet drew them together. 'Ponine and 'Chetta liked sitting back to back; Joly and Bossuet liked to hold hands and be near Musichetta at all times; Enjolras and Grantaire were usually near each other; Bahorel was the only one who could calm Feuilly down; Feuilly liked to be with Grantaire so they could mock the world together; Enjolras liked to be near Combeferre so they could talk philosophy; Combeferre edged toward Eponine shyly; Bahorel liked to be near her too so they could make fun of their friends; Jehan liked to be alone; Courf liked to be with Jehan.

They were a tangle of limbs.

It was during these times when they could just forget the world. That troublesome, terrible, amazing, gritty, fantastic, depressing world. When Joly could put his powders and pills and plants away, when Courf and Jehan could stow away their makeup for another time, when Feuilly could calm down and Jehan and 'Ponine could crack a smile for once.

They were a family.

XXX

"_Among all the urchins and old Chinese merchants_

_Of the old town,_

_We reigned at the pool hall_

_With one iron cue ball,_

_And never let the bastards get us down."_

They discovered that Grantaire could pull a good hustle now and again, and Enjolras was decent at it himself. They defeated men and women in a dusty old pool hall, kings of it. Money began to flow in after that, and they began to stay in the rat-trap hotel whenever they weren't at The Hollow. People talked, accusing R and "his Apollo" of hustling (which was true), being criminals (also true) and…being gay. (Which was…kind of true. At least on Grantaire's part. He had been in love with Enjolras since he was ten.)

XXX

"_And we laughed off the quick tricks,_

_Of the old men with limp dicks,_

_On the colonnade of the waterfront park._

_As four in the morning_

_Came on cold and boring,_

_We huddled close _

_In the bus stop enclosure enfolding,_

_Our hands tightly holding." _

It was a bad day for all of them – Jehan had been smacked around by a "customer" and had all but exploded at Courf for trying to help him. "I'm not some delicate flower!" he'd screamed. "Stop trying to protect me or shield me or whatever it is you're doing! I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP!"

"Jehan," Courf had whispered, "I'm trying to help you because I care about you."

"NO!" Jehan had screamed again. "JUST STOP!"

Joly had had a severe anxiety attack, freaking out on both Bossuet and 'Chetta when they tried to help him. This had caused Feuilly to start shaking; the most violent tremors he had had yet. He trembled and quailed, not even accepting the last cigarette. He'd tried, but his shaking had knocked the box out of Bahorel's hand. He was now reduced to a half-mad, quivering ball of nerves in Bahorel's arms.

'Ponine and Combeferre had disappeared off somewhere, and nobody could find them. It was dark and dismal, a freezing rain falling upon Manhattan.

Enjolras had slipped out, and Grantaire – as always – had followed. He had found his Apollo curled up in a bus stop enclosure, wearing the same stupid raincoat that he had worn the day they ran away. "R?" he asked.

"Apollo." Grantaire scooted in beside Enjolras. "It's four in the morning, Apollo. It's cold. Come back inside. It's tense, but it's warm. You'll catch your death out here." He realized that he had reached for Enjolras's hand, and the two looked surprised, but gripped each other's hands like it was the last thing they would ever do.

"Thank you," Enjolras whispered.

XXX

_"But here in our hollow we fuse like a family,  
But I will not mourn for you.  
So take up your makeup  
And pocket your pills away.  
We're kings among runaways  
On the bus mall.  
We're down  
On the bus mall.  
We're down  
On the bus mall.  
Down on the bus mall.  
Oh ooh oh."_

They were all messed up. No one could piece them back together. Prostitutes, sinners, drug dealers. Depressing and neurotic and anxiety-ridden. In love and in hate. But they were a family. And that was all that mattered.


	26. be absolute for death

**Hi, all! This is the last update of any FanFiction for a while, because…I START HIGH SCHOOL TOMORROW, SEPTEMBER 4th! :3 I'm so excited and happy. Seven hours of sleep a night for this girlie! Eleven at night to six in the morning is my new sleep schedule. Anyway, it's Feuilly Appreciation Week, and this monster came about. Notice how every chapter of this, "La Fille Qui Flambait," and "Three Daughters" is now titled after a Shakespeare quote? Sorry, Shakes! ;)**

**Yours, **

**-Georgie**

**XXX**

Gavroche is twelve years old, yes, but he likes to think that he understands more than most brats his age do. He knows quite a bit about politics, thanks to his good friend Enjolras. And he knows about surviving on the streets, which is more than those stuffy little bourgeoisie snots can say. He knows all the best places for everything from billiards to booze, thanks to Grantaire, although he doesn't care much for billiards, and doesn't drink…most of the time. He knows all about different languages from Marius, poetry and how to craft words so that they become beautiful from Jehan, medicine from Joly, and tons of other fascinating things from his friends in Les Amis. From his father's gang, Babet and Claquesous spend a few hours every week teaching him how to do various nefarious activities. Montparnasse, when he isn't off murdering innocent young men, likes to parade Gavroche around. "My young pup," he says when the grisettes look at them fondly. "We ain't related, but we may as well me. Teachin' the lad everything I know."

Oh, he and he also knows about certain things a man can do to a woman that he feels as if he shouldn't know. But Courfeyrac thought it would be useful to tell him, so it _must_ be something worth knowing.

Speaking of men and women and relationships and all that…Gavroche learned about another kind of relationship from his favorite brawler Bahorel. Bahorel hadn't talked about it, exactly, and Gavroche felt like he probably shouldn't have been listening to it, but it had gone a little like this:

_"Goodnight, all! Little Gav, do you have a place to stay tonight?" Bahorel asked as the meeting wound down. Their friends slowly trickled out of the Café, Joly and Bossuet excited to see Musichetta; Enjolras and Grantaire arguing as usual; Courfeyrac and Combeferre heading back to their flat; Jehan following behind Courfeyrac like the lost puppy he was, etc. Feuilly stayed behind, waiting for Bahorel, it seemed._

_ Gavroche considered. "Well, I s'pose. The elephant's been a bit full lately, what with my kids recruitin' even more brats for me to take care of. I ain't sayin' that I wouldn't mind spendin' a night away from my kids, I tell you that. 'Parnasse'd probably let me stay with him. Unless 'Ponine is over. Then I ain't allowed."_

_ Bahorel snickered. "Would you like to spend the night at my flat, Gav? I'm rooming with Feuilly tonight, anyway, so it would be empty. You can take my bed."_

_ "You mean it?" Gavroche beamed. "Well, pickle me, Bahorel! Thanks from me to you!" When he got excited, his argot got thicker. "A real goosy-feather bed 'n all! I'm takin' you up on the offer!" _

_ Feuilly laughed from the corner where he had parked himself. "Speak French, lad," the people-loving painter grinned. "Not whatever gibberish that is."_

_ Gavroche giggled. "Sorry, then. I'll see myself in, 'Rel." He retrieved the key from his hulking friend, and skipped off into the night, singing cheerily and ignoring the prowlers in the darkness. It was a beautiful night, not that Gavroche cared much for nature and all that. The stars were out, spangling the velvet sky, and the cobbles were cool under his bare feet. He took the long way to Bahorel's flat, secretly a bit glad that Feuilly lived just at the end of the hall from Bahorel. Sometimes sleeping by yourself could be a bit scary. It was good to know two of his friends were right there if he needed them… _

_ And it would turn out that he_ would_ need them._

_ He had had a terrible nightmare, something about guns and explosions and a cheerful song unfinished. Gavroche jumped out of Bahorel's bed, his bare feet striking the floor loudly, shocking his brain into some sort of "That was a gunshot!" flurry. He ran to the door, yanking it open without the sense to lock it behind him. He dashed along the hall, wrenching Feuilly's door open. His fevered, scared brain finally calmed at the familiar yet sparse sight of Feuilly's flat. _

_ "It was just a dream, Gav," he whispered to himself. "Don't be a scared little kitty-boy! Look at you, shakin' and quiverin' like a little girl!" He shook his head, eyeing the blurred shapes of Feuilly's furniture in the darkness. Taking a seat on a comfortable chair, he let himself relax a bit. "I ain't scared," he told himself, "but all the same, since I'm here, I may as well stay. The chair's right comfortable, and 'Rel and Fi are just a room away if I need 'em." He snuggled down in the large chair, letting his eyes droop closed…_

_ He was awoken the next morning by Bahorel and Feuilly's voices. _

_ "Please don't fight, 'Rel," he could hear Feuilly beg. "If I lost you, my life would be over."_

_ "We have to fight, don't you see?" Bahorel argued back. "This is for the good of the people. And if I die for what I believe in, so be it." _

_ Gavroche's heart beat a bit faster. They had been planning their citizen's revolt for a few months now, but from the way his friends spoke, they made it sound like it was happening tomorrow! He got up from the chair and walked on silent feet to Bahorel's room. What he saw shocked him: Bahorel with tiny Feuilly completely enveloped in his arms, rocking back and forth and murmuring things in the latter's ear. Feuilly looked up with tears in his eyes._

_ "Is this it, then? Our last time together before certain death?" he choked._

_ "Don't say that, mon amour. We'll succeed yet. I promise it," Bahorel whispered._

_ "Mon amour?" Gavroche questioned from the doorway. "Bahorel, do you love Feuilly?"_

_ Bahorel looked up calmly, completely unfazed. "Why yes I do. I love him more than he will ever know. Is there a problem with that, Gav?" There was challenge in his eyes. _

_ Gavroche blushed, feeling chastised. "N-no, I s'pose not," he said quickly. "I mean, love is love, and all that, yeah? After all, Joly and Bossuet share 'Chetta and that ain't really normal, and my sis loves 'Parnasse, who is threatenin' to end her with jus' about every breath and –" He was babbling, and he knew it. "Ain't what I'm used to, really, but I guess two men could be in love. It ain't really a problem. I mean, I guess…uh…" He paused. "Can I say that I think that Jehan and Courf might be…you know?"_

_ Feuilly laughed from Bahorel's arms, his tears forgotten. "Don't strain yourself, Gav. You're alright. And yes, you're not in the wrong about Prouvaire and Courf."_

_ "Oh. Well…I'll leave you two to it, then," the little boy shrugged, still embarrassed. At Bahorel's cocked eyebrow, his face flushed bright red. "Oh, no! That ain't what I mean! I mean…uh…I mean…I'll just see myself out." With that, he skedaddled, to the sound of his friends' laughter._

XXX

And so, Gavroche sits on an overturned desk behind a giant wall of broken chairs and empty barrels, playing a jaunty tune on the busted piano in front of him. "_Oh, my love is gone, gone, gone, and she took all my cash! Now I'm goin' down, down, down to give her new man a good bash!_" he sings in his warbling tenor. "_She'll be real sorry, she will, will, will! When her love's buried deep, deep, deep in Sam's hill, hill, hill!" _His friends laugh and clap at the end of his impromptu song, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, they'll succeed. After all, the National Guard hasn't even shown up yet, and the worst thing that's happened is Bossuet tripping and skinning his elbow.

The sun is low in the sky, and a sad-looking boy takes a seat next to him. "How 'bout a song of missing love, then?" he asks. He's got a surprisingly high voice.

"Huh…I s'pose I can think of a little ditty," Gavroche says merrily, glad to have the attention on him. "A girl caught your heart and mangled it up, pal?"

"No," the boy whispers. "But little brother is fighting for what he believes in, so I'm joining him to protect him, and the love of my life won't fight with us. I'll die, and he's gonna be around tomorrow, saying, 'Well, 'Ponine, I told you so, didn't I?'" the "boy" finishes off with a sob.

Gavroche knows she is talking about Montparnasse. He sighs. "'Ponine, go home. This ain't a place for girls such as yourself. Go be with 'Chetta, please? She's waitin' it out for her boys. You'd be wise to do the same. I don't need protecting."

Eponine smiles at him softly. "I'm your sister. I have to protect you. Just play the song, brat."

"_He's off to war, the merry boy, off to fight and fight and fight_," Gavroche sings, playing tunelessly, skipping the broken keys. It sounds almost haunting, and his friends look up at him with renewed attention. "_I love him, that jolly boy, but I do not think he'll last the night. With gentle curls and loving smile, he promises to return. But I know that by dawn his life will adjourn. There will be blood, and there will be shots_–"

"That's enough, Gavroche," Enjolras says sharply. "Please," he adds when he sees Gavroche's surprised, slightly hurt expression.

Suddenly, a black blur jumps over the top of the barricade, landing clumsily on the cobbles. It's Montparnasse! He looks around with utter contempt, his pale skin looking unhealthy and deep, dark circles bruising under his eyes. "Where is she?" he snarls, all of his usual elegance gone and replaced with rage. "Where is that little whore?! I told her not to fight, but she ain't ever gonna listen, is she?!" He stalks around the surprised circle of boys. "I SAID, WHERE IS SHE?!"

"I'm here, 'Parnasse," Eponine says quietly.

"We're leavin', _now_!" he seethes. "You'll get yourself shot, you will." He grabs her arm roughly and tugs, but she doesn't move. "You little bitch! This ain't a game! C'mon!"

Bahorel takes a menacing step forward. "Pretty boy," he growls, "watch yourself. No one speaks to our friend that way."

Montparnasse sags, suddenly, like the life has been sucked out of him. He plops down on the cobbles, letting go of Eponine's arm and leaning against the entrance to the Corinth. He sighs, and eyes Gavroche. "You're here too, little pup?" he says resignedly.

Gavroche nods, angry with Montparnasse for speaking to his sister the way he just did. His mouth is a thin line.

"Oh, now don't be mad with me, pup," Montparnasse sighs. "I'm lookin' out for her, dontcha see? You're all gonna die. Shot up like fish in a barrel. The National Guard is marching here right now. They're be here in maybe ten minutes. You all gotta leave. I'm takin' the girl I love and gettin' outta here right now." He scoops Eponine up, throwing her over one shoulder. She begins to beat her fists against his back, but the skinny young dandy does nothing but wince slightly. "'Ponine, I can't let you die," he whispers. He turns to Gavroche. "Little pup, come with us."

Gavroche shakes his head sadly, but runs forward and hugs Montparnasse tightly. "Thank you for takin' 'Ponine. Keep her safe, 'Parnasse," he mutters, and backs away.

Montparnasse nods, and holds the still-protesting Eponine tightly. He scrambles up the barricade and then disappears from sight.

"Positions, everyone," Enjolras says softly.

Les Amis slowly move, Bahorel, pulling Feuilly aside with a meaningful look to Enjolras, who walks over to Grantaire and takes the cynic's hand in his own. Gavroche doesn't mean to spy, but he wants to listen to what his friends are saying.

"I love you," is what Bahorel whispers, and Feuilly nods, repeating it.

It's over that quickly.

And then, the battle has begun. There are screams and shots, and blood everywhere. It's just like Gavroche's dream. Bahorel rumbles down the barricade and shoots a guard. Another soldier buries his bayonet in Bahorel's chest.

"NO!" Gavroche screams. Because it's too quick. It's like…one minute Bahorel is standing, grinning with bloody teeth, and the next, he's down on the cobbles in front of the barricade, writhing in pain. He and Feuilly tumble down the stacked furniture, the battle around them forgotten. It's Feuilly who gets there first, taking his love's head in his lap, tears dripping down his face, and–

No. Gavroche can't look. It's too much. His friend is dying. It feels like someone is punching him in the gut over and over and laughing at his pain. It's like –

_BOOM._

A single gunshot is all it takes, and Feuilly is slumped over the now-dead Bahorel.

Some sick part of Gavroche thinks: _Two down, seven to go. _"Oh, God," he gurgles, and runs back inside the barricade. His friends are dead. Feuilly the painter, the fan maker, the Poland-loving artist who loved all men and women. Bahorel, the spirited bawler, the grinning boy, the gargantuan brute. Both of them are dead.

_You will never see them again._

Gavroche runs back inside the barricade, choking on his sobs, his arms tight around himself. He trips on the cobbles, crashing to the ground, and a new wave of consuming tears take over. He is hauled up by a sad, smiling Courfeyrac, who nearly crushes him in his arms. His body is wracked with the shuddering sobs, and he keeps crying out, "They're _DEAD_!" in a shrill voice.

Eventually, the horrible battle ends for the day, and Joly and Bossuet have been gunned down, along with Courfeyrac and Jehan. Gavroche is sitting under a hollowed out set of drawers that's been turned on its side, his arms wrapped around his knees, and tears running down his cheeks. _'Rel, Feuilly, Courf, Jehan, Joly, and Bossuet. _They're all gone, lined up neatly inside the now-broken Corinth like matches. Still, unseeing, bloody matches. Only Enjolras, Combeferre, and Grantaire remain. The Chief, the Guide, and the Drunk.

"This ain't right," he whispers, shaking. He can hear 'Ferre and Enjolras discussing about how they're running out of ammunition. He briefly wonders why he doesn't hear Grantaire's voice, and feels an icy hand clench 'round his heart. _Is Grantaire dead, too? Who knows?_

"I can help 'em," Gavroche whispers to himself. "I can pick ammunition bags off of those dead vipers." He exits his makeshift shelter and makes sure his friends aren't looking, and then sneaks over the barricade, his (still bare) feet hitting the cobblestones. They're warm from the warm rain that fell a few hours ago, and slick with…other substances. Soon, he knows his feet will be stained red. His tear-filled eyes dart around, and he spots a dead guard. Snarling, he rips the ammunition bag from the evil man's body and lobs it over the barricade.

"_I'm a young boy, I know that it's true!_" he sings, loosing another ammunition pouch and tossing it. A gunshot splits the air, but misses Gavroche. He gives a cocky grin, wiping his tears. "_And a dirty little thing like me don't mean nothin' to you!_" Loose a bag, lob it over the barricade. It becomes a system. One line, one bag, one toss. "_But I've got my life ahead, so please don't shoot!_" At those words, a bolt of pain ribs though him, and he jerks. His stomach begins to pour blood, and he presses his hand over the wound, glaring. He can hear Enjolras and Combeferre crying out to him. The sound is sort of tinny now. _"Most of my friends are dead and gone_," he gasps through gritted teeth, managing to throw two more bags over the barricade. "_God only knows how I lasted this long_." A gunshot that hits him in the left shoulder. He screams. "_A stomach weepin' blood and a shoulder splintered bad. I think the end is near, but should I be glad?_" He feels as if his body is on fire, and now he only has one working hand.

"_What a funny turn of events, boys. Look at old Gavroche. Bloody and dying and – well gosh! My friends are gone and I will be soon, so do me a favor, and let me have some room. No more pain for a few minutes more, and then I swear to you, I'll be out the door._" Another shot, and he is on his back.

Out the door.


	27. passing through nature to eternity

**Sorry for not updating in a while. Guys…I started high school! I'm a freshman! A frosh! Hah! I ADORE HIGH SCHOOL SO MUCH! I love it, and actually look forward to it. So many acting opportunities, and today in theatre class, me, my friend, and the theatre teacher sang part of "One Day More." I LOVE IT! ^_^**

**Yours,**

**-Georgie alias Novi**

**XXX**

Jean sat on his bed, a perturbed expression on his face. It was the third time this week the Voices had visited him, and he was beginning to think he was going mad. The first time it had happened, it had been a whisper. Just a few words. _Is this the one they named after me? Yes? Well, he's a handsome lad. _He'd been in the sitting room, drawing a picture of Maman to give to Pere for The Sad Days. For some reason, every fifth and sixth of June, Pere would get very sad. Jean had once walked in on Pere sobbing into his hands. He'd slowly backed out of the room, leaving the issue alone.

So he thought that maybe he could draw a picture of Maman to give Pere some cheer. He was trying to finishing the drawing now. But it was those voices again! And this time, they seemed to be addressing him.

_Is this the boy, Combeferre? What a sweet child. Who is he drawing? _It was a feminine voice that didn't belong to a woman. Jean could almost hear flowers in the voice.

_Why don't you ask him, Prouvaire? _This voice was wry and joking, but sounded sad.

_Oh. I suppose I hadn't thought of that. Hello…? Boy…? Jean? _A giggle there. _How odd it feels to address someone by my own name. Who are you drawing? _It was the same feminine voice from before, that the wry one had called Prouvaire. _Well, hello? Who are you drawing, then, child?_

_Grantaire! _This voice was full of charisma. Very commanding, and slightly cold. _Don't encourage Prouvaire. We're here to observe, not converse. The child probably can't even hear us. And even if he can, I'm sure we're scaring him._

Jean dropped his quill and clutched at his sandy brown hair, clenching his eyes shut. "They're not here," he whispered to himself.

_He _can_ hear us, Apollo! _the wry voice crowed. _Don't doubt me, Orestes! _

_Grantaire! _This was from Cold Charisma.

_Yee-eee-ees? _the Wry One drawled. _Coming to find some sort of fault in me? Oh, great marble statue, forgive the humble sinner!_

_Enough with your so-called witticisms! Quiet, R! _Cold Charisma snapped.

_Oh, calling me by a pet name, I see_, the Wry One said. Jean could hear a smile in the tone.

"Who _are _you?" Jean whispered "What do you want from me? How do you know my name?"

Another voice joined the mix. It was calm and collected; soothing. _"Forgive them, Jean. They're like children." _Soothsayer gave a chuckle. _"We want nothing from you, child. We wanted to see how Marius and Cosette were. A long time ago, Marius was a good friend to us. Your name is Jean, yes? Do you have any idea who you were named after?"_

"Uh…" Jean couldn't believe this. He was holding a conversation with an invisible person. Multiple invisible persons. He set his drawing of Maman aside on the mauve bedspread, spreading his fingers out along the soft duvet. "Well, Maman said that I was named after Father Valjean. And Pere did vaguely mention something about a good friend he once had named Jean. Both of them, I believe."

"_Oh! A good friend named Jean!" _Prouvaire's voice squealed. _"That's me! Boy, you were named after me!" _

"Oh. Who…who are you, exactly?" Jean asked the empty air in front of him. It looked as if he was holding an intense conversation with his drapes. They were horribly dull, a sort of gray noncolor that hurt his eyes on sunny days. In fact, if he was honest with himself, Jean sort of hated his room. It was very small, with a wooden floor shined so brightly he could see himself reflected in it. The ugly curtain covered a long window that looked out onto the garden, which was a very nice place. The room always felt suffocating with its heavy drapes and dark colors, the armoire sitting like a squat wooden toad in one corner.

"_Marius has never told you about us?" _It was the voice of Cold Charisma. _"I am disappointed. He was a good ally, though, I'll grant him that."_

"_You'll _grant_ him that," _the Wry One scoffed. _"The poor boy damn near gave his life for us, and you _grant_ that he was a good ally. As if he needs your permission to even exist!"_

"_I _never _said that!" _Cold Charisma shouted abruptly. _"You could have lived as well, you know! Don't act so vindictive, or resentful…or whatever it is! It was your choice to die!"_

"_I hold no resent. I made my choice gladly, Apollo."_

"…_Well."_

Jean shook his head, confused. "No, Pere never told me about any of you," he said quickly, hoping to diffuse the invisible argument. "Shall we…go outside? It's much more pleasant out there. How – how many of you are there, exactly?"

"_Sadly, only four. My name is Combeferre. The others are Jean Prouvaire –"_

"_Jehan!"_

"_Jehan, Enjolras, and Grantaire."_

Cold Charisma was Enjolras, Prouvaire was Jehan, Soothsayer was Combeferre, and the Wry One was Grantaire. Okay. Jean nodded. "Alright, then."

"_It would be best to stay inside," _Jehan said softly. _"The sun is very bright. It – it hurts us sometimes. Up in the Garden, the sun is very mild." _There was a pause. _"The Garden of the Lord, I mean. Child, you can't see us, can you?"_

"No," Jean answered. "It looks like I'm talking to my curtains."

Jehan chuckled._ "We will appear to you, then." _

Before Jean knew it, four men – well, boys – appeared in front of him. The first had long blonde hair tied back in tail, sparkling blue eyes, and nice teeth. He looked stoic and sad, with his arms crossed. He had clad in a red blazer. The second had dark, greasy hair and ruddy cheeks, with a nose that looked as if it had been broken several times. He was ugly, but his eyes were the bluest Jean had ever seen, and they held an incomprehensible sadness. There were bloody bullet holes in his chest, stomach, right shoulder, and neck. The next was a quiet-looking, unremarkable boy with sandy-brown hair and spectacles. The very last was delicate and thin, with hair that wasn't quite blonde or red or auburn in a lady's braid. He looked fragile and fine-boned, like china or porcelain.

"You were friends of Pere?" Jean asked, feeling slightly sick at the bullet holes peppering the ugly one. "You're Grantaire?" he guessed.

The inky-haired boy nodded silently, a sad smile playing on his lips. "Of course he didn't tell you about us," he said, shaking his head. "We've been forgotten by the world."

The handsome blonde boy put a hand on Grantaire's shoulder. "Hush, R," he said softly. "The world will remember us yet."

The bespectacled boy – Combeferre? – looked at the two fondly and shook his head. "We were his friends, yes. Courfeyrac more so than the rest of us. You see, we were young and naive, and thought we could change the world." Combeferre moved to the bed, sitting on Jean's right side and wrapping a ghostly arm around the boy. "Let me tell you a story, boy. In the year 1832, a group of nine revolutionaries and their friends staged an uprising. They failed miserably, and every last one of them was killed. The youngest was twelve years old, the eldest somewhere in his eighties. I was twenty-four. Enjolras here, twenty-two. Grantaire was twenty-four, and Jehan was seventeen. He was the youngest of our amiable group…other than Gavroche." He shook his head. "We were so young. I expected to have a family by this age. A nice wife, a few children…a nice home. Meeting up with the friends I so loved every week, although not for plans of revolt, but plans of family picnics. Enjolras and I planned to raise our children like brothers." A sad smile played at his lips.

"You all died?" Jean whispered. "Everyone?"

"Every last one," Jehan whispered back, sitting on Jean's left side and putting his arm around the boy as well, so that he and Combeferre's arms overlapped. "It's not so bad, though. Everyone I love, I am with. 'Ferre, Courf, Enjolras and Grantaire, Joly, Lesgles, Bahorel and Feuilly…Musichetta and the children, Gavroche and Eponine…they're all there. I do miss my parents sometimes, though."

Jean felt something like a tidal wave of sadness pressing down on his chest. "Did…did this happen on the fifth and sixth of June?" He felt sick.

Grantaire gave an uncertain nod.

"Oh, God," Jean whispered. "Pere always cries on those days. He is so sad. When I was nine, I heard him muttering 'Oh, my friends, my friends.' I never asked him – by God. Oh…" he moaned.

"You had no way of knowing, boy," Enjolras said kindly.

Jean began to cry. "Pere has lived without you all for fifteen years." He and Cosette had waited a year before having him. "He must look at me every day and see you all."

"Don't cry, then, child," Jehan soothed. "You're a good boy. It was Marius's decision not to tell. I can respect it. Who would want to go through that pain again?"

Jean sniffled. "I feel terrible."

"Well, don't," Grantaire said gruffly. "There are others who have it worse than you, kid. Didja ever think of that?" He disappeared suddenly, just vanishing into thin air. Enjolras looked pained and disappeared with a parting look at Jean.

"_Grantaire!" _he shouted.

Jean sniffled again. "Why does he look that way?" he asked in a whisper. "So…tired? And the bullets? And…the rest of you look young and happy. With no wounds. Why?" He was getting more and more upset with each question.

"Calm yourself, Jean," Combeferre said with a weary smile.

"Sorry."

"He wears them as a reminder of what he died for," Jehan said softly. "_He loved Apollo fair,/ but died as he took to the air. Icarus flew too close to the sun and was burned/with each searing look and stinging comment/each spurn. They served as flashes of fire/Apollo did not know his own strength/until the moment Icarus asked permission to die at his feet. Now Apollo has forgotten/but Icarus has a mind of steel. Forever harm and forever pain/some wounds will never heal."_

"That was beautiful," Jean whispered.

"Ah, just a little something I dashed off," Jehan said softly, brushing off Jean's compliment. "Well, my boy, we must be going. Good luck. Tell your father…tell your father thank you. And…we're sorry the rest of us couldn't be there. Courf especially. He sends his regards to the 'pretty lady,' as he says. Joly worries for Marius's health. Ah, we miss him. We won't be back soon, I'd imagine. But…tell him the Garden awaits for when he is ready." He put his hands on Jean's shoulders. "Be strong, _mon ami_. Support your father; love him with all of your heart. Goodbye, then." He evaporated into thin air, closely followed by a sad-looking Combeferre.

Jean just sat there for a moment, before taking up his quill and crumpling up the picture of Maman. He began on a new picture, of four extraordinary boys.


	28. for the rain it raineth every day

**Aw, my miserable(s) friends, look at me being a bad person and not updating. I'm sorry about that! School has lots of homework, and I'm busy quite a bit. But guess what? My school had auditions for one act plays and I auditioned for all of them! I got one callback, and auditioned for four more shows on the day of my callback. On final callbacks, I got two callbacks and ended up getting cast! My play is called **_**Einstein on the Beach **_**and it's weird as hell. Only three or four freshmen got cast, so I am proud of myself! ^_^ Yay me. Anyhow, I'll be home late on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Plus I have Thespian Club and Improv Club, although those are during school. Wow. Look at me being busy. Acting everywhere!**

**Now, on the FanFic side, the next story being updated will be **_**Three Daughters**_**. Looking back on it, I realize that my latest chapters kind of suck, so expect something a bit better. I'm not sure when I'll have the time, but it will be updates. Also, on this side, this idea has been nagging at me for a few days. This one is a two-parter with a damn weird pairing: Grantaire/Azelma/Enjolras. You're welcome.**

**Sorry for my rambles.**

**Also, one more thing and then I'm done. I swear. I'd like to thank my new reviewer Trust Gavroche. She's amazing. **

**Yours,**

**-Novi alias Georgie**

**XXX**

It was storming. Well, when one thought of it, "Storming" was an understatement. It was as if God had unleashed all of His sorrows upon the world in a great torrential downpour. The night sky was a deep blue, the whole world hued that way. Rain slung itself against tightly closed shutters as if it were on a suicide mission. It fell sideways, crashing upon the cobbles. It pounded upon tin roofs and beat at the shutters. The wind was wild and slicing, chafing skin and blowing away anything that wasn't all but chained to the ground. The cold was insidious. Even the women of the street and the murderous prowlers that usually lurked in the shadows at this time was night were gone, tucked away in some dark corner.

Gavroche and his_ mômes_ were tucked safely inside their elephant statue, laughing at the rain slamming against the elephant's drooping sides. "My boys, this here rain is an angry giant!" the twelve-year-old proclaimed.

The eldest _môme_, the one who was seven, tightened his grip on his little brother and shrank into Gavroche's sagging mattress. "Monsieur, it's not a real giant, yes?" the little boy whimpered.

The five-year-old began to shake. "A g-g-giant?" he stammered. "Will he tear the elephant apart and eat us for his supper?"

"Why, no, little brats!" Gavroche chuckled. "He's an old coward, this ogre, and wouldn't dare touch my lovely home. He's too scared to, 'cause he knows I would give him a stern talking-to if he did! He'll stay on the outside, lads, if we stay on the inside. Now, it's warm in here and I can hear the rats singing their songs. Let's go to bed."

Eponine wasn't far from her brothers, but she was not going to bed. In fact, she was sitting in a snug library, learning by leaps and bounds. A nice student with spectacles had noticed that she could read and write, and had offered to teach her a few more things.

"Are you warm enough, child?" the kind student questioned. He took off his waistcoat and put it around Eponine's shoulders. "It's chilly out, isn't it?"

"Yes, Monsieur Combeferre," Eponine answered shyly. She had gotten better lately. Less…insane. She had the feeling it was something to do with the student she was sitting next to.

Four out of the five Thénardier siblings were warm and comfortable…but the youngest daughter was not. She was huddled in a doorway in that blue-tinted night in a ragged pair of men's pants and a woman's blouse. The trousers were tan, but the water had seemingly dyed them a grayish color. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, her bare feet tucked up under her legs. A torn shawl rested around her shoulders, sometimes providing the illusion of comfort, but then quickly dissipating whenever Azelma thought she might be a smidge warmer.

She shivered violently, her teeth chattering. Her pale lips had turned a light shade of blue, along with the tips of her fingers and toes. _Dear Heavenly Father_, she thought weakly. Even thinking seemed to take energy. _I know I did not believe in You faithfully before, but please grant me some sort of warmth. _

As soon as the thought went through her head, her miracle came walking by.

He was an ink-haired man with no cap, his hands shoved into the pockets of his waistcoat. His head was pointed skyward, a smile on his pale face, even though there was rain buffeting him from all sides. This man was one who had something that made him feel as if he were the happiest man in the world. Something that, even on the worst possible days, would light some sort of fire in him that gave him that brilliant smile.

_His mistress must be a miracle worker_, Azelma thought with a shake of her head. Her wet, matted orange-brown ringlets shook softly. She observed him a bit more, deciding that it must not be a mistress. A wife, maybe. He had the smile of one in love. As he passed by her doorway, Azelma shrank as small as she could go out of habit.

The man stopped.

"Oh. Well, hello there, child," he said softly. His name was Nicolas Grantaire. _Poor young thing_, he thought. "What are you doing out in this sort of weather?"

"Please, sir," the child begged, "let me be. I'm not a prostitute."

Grantaire started. "A – why, I couldn't think such a thing!" He kneeled down on her level and smiled, though the knees of his trousers were now resting in a puddle that grew rapidly deeper with each raindrop. "Don't be frightened of me, _petit_," he said softly. "I mean you no harm. I swear it." He looked into her pretty brown eyes, trying to make her _see _that he was no nefarious man. "Do you trust me?"

Azelma looked into the brilliant blue eyes of this man, deciding that she did. _He's in love with someone. He would stay true to his wife_, she decided. "Yes, sir, I do," she said in quiet voice.

"Good. You're a gamin, are you not?" At her small nod, Grantaire smiled softly. "Poor thing. You can't be but fifteen. I have a room near. Would you like to stay the night and get out of this rain?" At her panicked look, he spread his hands out. "No, no. Not like that, I swear it. I swear on my dear mother's grave." He continued speaking words of reassurance, swearing that he meant the little gamin no harm whatsoever, that he was already in a committed relationship, and was true to his love. Finally, when his inky hair was plastered to his forehead, his crooked nose was bleeding in a thin stream, and his long fingers had turned blue, he rose to his feet, once again towering over Azelma. "Child, we're both going to die of hypothermia if we don't get out of this cold," he said finally. "I need to go to home, now. I wish you would come with me, but I won't force you to. I'll give you the choice once more: come with me and stay out of the storm, or do not trust me and die of the cold."

"Your nose is bleeding, sir," she observed quietly. She wanted so badly to believe this kind man meant her no harm, but the last man who had said that…well…she couldn't bear to think of it. _Although, I did pray to God, and this man walked by just after that. Maybe…maybe it's God's will? _

"Ah, yes. A sad side effect of a fun little disease called alcoholism," he said bitterly. "My nose often bleeds."

"Are you intoxicated now?" Azelma asked.

"What – no. I assure you I am perfectly sober. My love doesn't appreciate it when I come home under the influence of spirits." He looked so serious and somber and sad that Azelma couldn't help it.

"I trust you, sir. My name is Azelma Thénardier and I am fifteen years old. I'll come with you." She held out her hand and he took it, taking his arm from one sleeve of his waistcoat and motioning for her to put her own arm in. She stuck her arm in the sleeve, wrapping one soaked arm around the waist of the kind man. "Is this okay, sir?" she asked.

"Indeed. Thank you for trusting me, Azelma. My name is Nicolas Grantaire, but please do call me Capital R. Do you understand the joke?"

"Grand R," Azelma returned. "Very clever, Monsieur." She shivered. "Do you live far?"

"Why no. My love and I live in a modest room just five minutes thataways," Grantaire answered with a smile. "Lord, there's a bitter chill in the air. And look at you, in nothing but a blouse and trousers. Where is your family, child?"

Azelma quickly cast her glance to the ground. Oh, dear. Here was the part where the kind gentleman would make a charity case of her, and 'Ponine had told her to never accept charity. It showed that you were weak. Azelma was more inclined to actually let someone help her, but after The Unnamed Thing that had happened with the Not-So-Nice-Man, Eponine's words echoed in her ears any time someone flipped a sous her way. "My family is my own business," she growled.

"Ah, your father hit you, I suppose. You were abused in ways unimaginable by some nameless man. Your poor mama is rotting in the grave. Your siblings are skinny and starving. Something like that?" There was a sudden bitter hardness in R's voice and Azelma shrank away, preparing to run.

"No. No. I'm sorry. Please don't go."

"You're right," Azelma forced out. "Evil father. Starving siblings." She gritted her teeth and blurted, "Unspeakable things."

"Oh, child," Grantaire murmured, and stopped right in the middle of the storm to give her a bone-crushing hug.

"I didn't…want to. But…I was starving in the street and he found me and told me he could give me food. I believed him…and then he just…" She broke off, her heart pounding. "He told me to never tell anyone or he would slit my throat and do the same to my sister."

Grantaire shook his head. "Who?"

"I do not know. He was large and intimidating, but it was dark and I couldn't see a thing."

"Oh, my child. Please…please let me help you. There must be something I can do."

"There is nothing, Monsieur Grand R. Let the issue be," Azelma said quietly, and continued walking, forcing R along. Finally, they got to his tenement, and out of the rain.

Grantaire opened a door with a large brass key from his pocket. "Well, fair mademoiselle," he grinned, trying to ignore Azelma's horrible story and honor her wish, "this is our humble abode."

Azelma looked around. There was a large bed with a wooden frame that took up most of the room in the direct center. It was plush and dry, covered with blankets, and looked comfortable. There were two wall-high bookshelves on each wall, covered with carefully paginated reports and classic books of literature, some in other languages. There was a tatty circular rug on the floor, and dirty wooden floorboards showed. Grantaire began to stack logs in the hearth for a fire, and Azelma gravitated towards it. Soon enough, there was a blazing, crackling fire warming Azelma's bones, her previously-hollow stomach now filled with bread and wine.

"Thank you, Monsieur Grand R," she breathed sleepily. "No one has ever been kind to me."

"You know, Azelma, if you wish, you could have this always. I'm sure my love would approve of taking in a child of the streets. They fight for equality of all classes, you see," Grantaire suggested.

"Do you mean it, Monsieur?" Azelma breathed. "You would take me in?"

"And gladly. We would protect you and feed you and –" here he pinched the threadbare fabric of Azelma's trousers "– possibly acquire you some new clothes."

Azelma giggled. "Thank you," she whispered quietly. "For everything."

R bowed his head so that their foreheads touched. His breath mingled with hers, and he took her hands in his own. "I will protect you always, Azelma Thénardier."

Azelma couldn't respond.

"Now, then," R smiled. "Let us find you some sleep clothes. He made his way across the small room to a chest full of clothes and began to fish around. Azelma migrated over to him, watching as he sorted through waistcoats and trousers.

"Monsieur Grand R?" Azelma asked. "Why not just borrow one of your wife's nightdresses? If she is as kind as you say, I'm sure she won't mind."

"Ah, here is where the complication arises. Please do not think of me as a harmful person after I say this…but my love is a man."

Azelma just stood there. "A man?" she gawked. "How could you be in love with a man?"

"The same way a woman can love a man," Grantaire said gently. "I love him with every single fiber of my being. He is my very reason for existence, you see."

Azelma plunked down on the floor, thinking this over. She took the pair of sleep trousers and oversize shirt R proffered her, ducking behind a screen in the corner and changing. When she came out, she was still thinking. "Does he treat you well?" she asked.

R smiled. "Well, we do fight. We shout at each other and throw hurtful insults like barbs. But…we love each other. And he always apologizes, as I do I. No relationship is perfect."

"Oh." Azelma scooted close to the fire, flinching at a loud pop. "What is his name?" _His_, she thought. _This may just be the oddest day of my life._

Grantaire slipped behind the screen to change into his nightclothes. "Julien Enjolras," he said. "He is the most beautiful man you'll meet. Charismatic and godlike."

"Oh," Azelma said. "Well…if you really do love each other…I suppose it could be alright."

"More than alright," R teased, immerging from the screen. "Now let's get you to bed."


End file.
